


The Conductor and the Violinist

by ourultraviolence



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU - Belle Époque, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Music, Obsession, classical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2019-07-28 06:22:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 43,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16235969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourultraviolence/pseuds/ourultraviolence
Summary: 1906, Riddle, a conductor, is a prodigy at the Royal Opera House. Hermione Granger is a brilliant violinist but he does not seem to agree on that. Tomione.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this a new story. I absolutely love Tchaikovsky's work and I kept picturing Hermione as a violinist so that explains that.
> 
> Hope you like it and that there are not too many mistakes, don't hesitate to correct me !

The music was slow, terribly sensual. The violinist was playing _adagissimo_. He was playing too slowly. Tom sighed and let his head fall into his hands. Immediately, the violinist stopped playing and looked at him anxiously, sensing he was doing it wrong.

 

Tom raised his head at the sudden silence and stared coldly at the brown-haired trembling man in front of him.

 

"Why did you stop playing Nott ?" he asked with a honeyed tone.

 

The man visibly crumbled at the question. Useless. Bloody useless.

 

"Go, you do not have the part. Tell the next one to come in."

 

The shaking man left his office without making a noise. Tom let out an annoyed breath. He had been having people auditioning for this part all bloody afternoon and none of the soloists he had seen could dare hope play the part well.

 

The door opened to let a young man come in. He was lanky and was holding his violin without much care.

 

"You are ?"

 

"Neville Longbottom sir..." said the youth avoiding meeting his eyes.

 

"Alright," sighed Tom, "play Sibelius's violin concerto in D, allegro non troppo."

 

The lanky man did not move, his eyes widening.

 

"What ?" he asked irritated.

 

"I don't know the piece sir."

 

Tom gave him a cold look. How could a young violinist not know this piece ? It had been a success since it was first played in an Opera last year.

 

"Well then you know you don't have the part."

 

Longbottom nodded abashed and went for the door. Thankfully the next one to come in was musician Riddle knew well, having studied at the same institute, Hogwarts Academy of Music.

 

"Thank God Avery, I was afraid I would not hear a single good musician of all day !"

 

Said Avery chuckled and closed the door behind him before sitting in front of Tom in the plush green chair violin in hand.

 

"What, don't tell me our orchestra is that bad ?"

 

"Well," grunted Tom, "none of them have the talent to be soloists, especially for this piece."

 

"Do I need to audition ?"

 

"No, please," laughed Tom, "after what I've heard and what I know you're capable of, you have the part, I want this nightmare to end."

 

He wrote Avery's name on the sheet where he had written meticulously the name of each of his musicians. Dumbledore had warned him that the royal family would be here for the opening of this season, and he was to conduct it. Of course the old fool intended for him to fail. But Tom Riddle was nothing if not brilliant, and he was an excellent conductor. If there was any mistake, it would because of a less than perfect musician, which he would not accept.

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione was having a bad day. First she woke up late, and it annoyed her to no end, even though today she did not have to wake up early. Then she could not find her undergarments and had to go knock on all of her floor's doors to find them, the Patil girl had thought they were hers. Then, she did not have any more time to do her hair properly so she had done a bun and it was messy. Her curls were everywhere but where they were supposed to be. She knew she did not look like a lady.

 

But she had gone out looking like a fright nonetheless because today was her day. She was going to audition to be the soloist for the part she loved the most in all her repertoire.

 

So she had been waiting for her turn a large corridor in the Opera. She usually did not go to that aisle as her usual conductor was in another one. But this season, she wanted to do more than easy concertos. She wanted for her fingers to bleed and for tears to fall when she would play.

 

The corridor, which walls were covered in deep green draperies, was crammed with other would-be soloists. No one talked; everyone seemed to be lost in his thoughts. She was the only woman she noticed bitterly.

 

Suddenly, Avery, a violinist she did not like, he was too hard on the strings, came out beaming.

 

"Sorry boys," he exclaimed, "and, hum, my lady, but looks I'm Riddle's soloist for the opening !"

 

She did not notice her mouth slowly opening in shock. Avery was not terrible but he was not good _enough_. Moreover she had been there for only two hours. Auditions usually lasted eight hours or more. She had heard of Riddle and knew him to be an asshole but still.

 

She clamped her mouth shut, fuming. She was better than that...poor excuse of a violinist.

 

"Well," she began lacing venom in her sweet voice, "I came here to audition and I will do so."

 

She pushed past him and opened the door to the conductor's office. She closed it behind her and went to sit at the chair in front of his desk as if she was in her right place.

 

She looked up with an easy smile. He was handsome. His skin was deathly pale and his grey eyes gave him all the life he needed. He had raised one of his eyebrows at her manner less entrance.

 

"Good afternoon sir," she began confidently, "I am a great admirer of your work and could not wait to audition for this part."

 

He kept staring at her unblinking, weirdly cold. He then glanced at the paper sitting on his desk. She took a peak at it, it was his list of musicians for his orchestra.

 

"And you are... ?"

 

She could not help but be surprised by how deep and commanding his voice was. She could see why he was considered to be a great conductor, you needed charisma, and he had it.

 

"Hermione Granger, I'm currently in McGonagall's orchestra."

 

He did not react which surprised her. After all McGonagall was also famous for being difficult on who could be in her orchestra and well, if Riddle could accept Avery as a soloist, he clearly was not as difficult.

 

"You know the position is taken right ?"

 

She frowned. So he was not budging easily. Well she was used to that.

 

"I also know I'm far better a violinist than Avery can dream to ever be," she stated matching his stare in coldness.

 

He blinked. She smirked almost by reflex. So he knew Avery was not the best. And he was surprised by her confidence.

 

"What tells me you're not just a pretentious little princess who wants to show her daddy she can do something else than marry and give heirs ?"

 

It was her turn to blink in surprise.

 

"That's terribly specific," she chuckled, "I'm neither a princess, nor a woman who intends to marry. I'm just a damn good violinist and this part was written for me."

 

He gave her a condescending smile.

 

"Dear, every violinist thinks Tchaikovsky wrote this piece for them."

 

Heat crept up her cheeks at his patronizing tone.

 

"You can call me Miss Granger, Mr Riddle," she answered in her coldest voice.

 

He narrowed his eyes. He knew she knew the correct way to address him was "sir", after all he was her hierarchal superior.

 

"Alright _Miss Granger_ , I think we're done here, you can get out."

 

Hermione stood up and returned his glare. Not breaking eye contact, she brought her violin in the correct position and stilled the bow barely above the strings.

 

"Which piece ?" she asked raising one of her eyebrows.

 

She would show him just how good she was.

 

He sighed still not blinking, which admittedly was kind of unnerving for her. He then threw his hands in the air and smiled at her, though it was obviously fake.

 

"What the hell, let's try it !" he laughed without warmth. "Mendelssohn's violin concerto E minor opus 64."

 

She released her breath and smirked. She knew it by heart. She began playing allegro molto appassionato. Quickly the music carried her away and she closed her eyes, letting herself let got and simply do what she did best, play.

 

She loved the feeling of vibrating wood on her cheek and the way she could literally _make sound_ simply by touching the strings with her bow. She was forgetting where she was when a simple word brought her back to her current surroundings.

 

"Stop."

 

It had not been said loudly but she heard it nonetheless so she stopped playing, a bit disappointed, she preferred the andante part.

 

His cold grey eyes held her brown ones for a minute, although Hermione felt like it lasted much more than the bit of piece she had played.

 

"You're in."

 

She bit the inside of her cheek in order not to show her excitation too obviously. So she simply bowed her head and gave him a little smile.

 

"Do not smile," he stated, "you'll simply be a violinist, Avery's still to be the soloist."

 

Her smile immediately fell.

 

"But-"

 

"You should only be grateful to me."

 

He started to write her name on his orchestra sheet, putting her name in a beautiful cursive, in the middle of other eternally anonymous violinists. She scowled. She knew she was better than Avery.

 

Without giving her a second glance, he started to browse through a file on his desk.

 

"I you don't want the job, you can go back to being one of McGonagall's slightly better than average violinist."

 

She seethed. He was insulting her openly by proposing, no, generously giving, this position to her. Who did he think he was ? She was only nineteen and already McGonagall had called her 'the brightest violinist of her age'.

 

"I'm not mediocre," she spat.

 

He went back to staring at her in that unnerving way of his.

 

"No," he said thinking, "you're not."

 

She frowned, not understanding his opinion of her.

 

"But," he smiled his voice taking a honeyed tone that grated Hermione's nerves, "you will not get better by staying in her orchestra."

 

He stood up and she realized that he was much taller than her. She was intimidated by this brute display of dominance.

 

"In fact, I'm pretty sure you came here because you were aware of that, and you knew that _I_ , and only _I_ , could give to you what you wanted. I can make you into the best violinist soloist this Opera has ever known."

 

Her mouth had slightly parted. She was hanging to his every word. It was true, she knew it deep down. She had heard of him and of his demanding nature. She knew she could only get better with him as conductor.

 

She had not noticed she had been leaning progressively towards his desk and he had been doing the same thing. She took a step back shaking her head. He kept staring at her as if she was a curious object.

 

"So, as I said, you should be grateful that I'm even willing to get you into my orchestra."

 

Just like that, her trance was broken. She frowned.

 

"Grateful for _this_ position ? I'm not even first violin !"

 

He sighed and sat down on his chair.

 

"Either you accept this position, or you're not in my orchestra."

 

She could feel her cheeks burning with both anger and shame. Of course she had to accept and he knew it. McGonagall, although already quite demanding, was not demanding enough.

 

"You... you..." she fumed, unable to insult her future boss and yet craving for release.

 

He smirked seemingly well aware of her internal turmoil.

 

"I need your answer right now dear," he said sickly sweet.

 

Her hand twitched. Oh how she wanted to slap that smirk of his face !

 

"It's Miss Granger and you know my answer," she spat face red.

 

His smile was the smile of a shark, a toothy shark.

 

"I need to hear it _dear_ , otherwise, it is not official."

 

If looks could kill, Riddle would be six feet under. But alas, they could not and she had to actually voice her humiliation.

 

"It's _Miss Granger_ and I, I accept the position."

 

He chuckled and shook his head. Well at least he seemed to be amused by the situation.

 

"You can get out dear now, I'll see you at tomorrow's rehearsal at 10 in the morning, sharp."

 

She was fuming. He was blatantly ignoring her demand for him to call her Miss Granger. She hated these sickly sweet, and clearly condescending, names like dear or sweetheart. She was going to kill him before the first concert.

 

"See you tomorrow _Mr Riddle_ ," she said with great effort to make her tone sound pleasing. It did not work but who could blame her ?

 

She went to open the door.

 

"Oh, and dear ?"

 

She turned eyes filled with hope that he was willing to acknowledge her talent and promote her soloist. Of course this was a stupid hope.

 

"Please do try to better your playing for tomorrow, I don't want my usual good musicians to think I've gone deaf while auditioning and that's why you're there."

 

His smile was as obviously fake as Avery's violinist skills. She gritted her teeth and nodded, smiling through tight lips.

 

God she was going to lose her mind this season.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I've gotten so much positive feedback on this story thank you so much ! I hope you like the second chapter as much ! Do not hesitate to review, not only does it warm my heart, it also can help me better my writing !

"I see you've taken Miss Granger as a violinist."

 

Tom nodded, trying his best not to openly glare at the Opera's director Albus Dumbledore.

 

"Yes sir, I have," he answered with his sweetest voice.

 

Dumbledore glanced at him, his damn eyes twinkling. How was the man so constantly happy ?

 

"Did she audition ?"

 

"Yes sir she did."

 

"And so ?" he smiled, clearly fucking amused.

 

God if he had known that this Granger girl would end up lengthening this excruciating meeting with the director, he would not have made the mistake of taking her in his orchestra. But fuck he knew a good musician when he heard one and she was good. Plus it was sure to piss off McGonagall.

 

"She's rather good sir."

 

Short answers were the best solution. He could not insult his director. He would not. Except if this meeting continued any longer.

 

"Is the list alright sir ? I have a concert this evening..."

 

Dumbledore gave him a smile.

 

"Yes so I heard, Lord Voldemort and his Deatheaters at the Lestrange Manor."

 

Tom's jaw ticked. Not trusting himself to speak he nodded. Dumbledore's sweet, not fake, voice, was sure to give him a stroke one day.

 

"Coming back to Miss Granger..."

 

Tom almost openly scowled but he had control over his face. He forced himself to breath.

 

"Minerva told me she was quite talented, how come she's not at least first violin?"

 

"Well sir, she came in late and all the positions were taken, that was all I could offer her."

 

Dumbledore gave him a pointed glance with a sweet smile.

 

"I'm sure you could have found better for a young lady who's so talented Tom."

 

Of course the old coot thought he could have done better than him. But the girl was pretentious, yes talented, but not yet worthy of being his first violin.

 

"It's the first time I'll conduct her sir, I did not want to take any risks for the opening."

 

The old man nodded and went back to looking at his list, humming quietly while doing so. Tom recognized a piece he hated, of course, Offenbach's Infernal Gallop, infernal indeed. He clasped his long hands together, imagining he was crushing Dumbledore's skull. He internally smirked. God what a wonderful feeling it would be.

 

"Well I'll let you to it Tom, you have a rehearsal tomorrow ?"

 

He nodded curtly.

 

"Great," beamed the old man, "I'll be sure to attend it."

 

Tom's eyes narrowed. Dumbledore was never there for _his_ rehearsals. Was it about the Granger girl ? If she was going to be trouble, he would have no qualms firing her.

 

"Good evening sir."

 

He turned to leave; he would finally be rid of Dumbledore's presence for the day.

 

"Good concert Tom."

 

Tom barely acknowledged the encouragement, choosing to breathe again, outside the director's office.

 

* * *

 

Hermione sighed deeply and with a grunt let her head fall on the table. She felt a warm arm slipping around her shoulders and bringing her closer to her friend's chest. She leaned into the touch.

 

"You know 'Mione he might not be as bad a fellow as you make him out to be," he said softly, burying his mouth into her thick hair to find her ear.

 

She leaned back against the bench and looked in her best friend's eyes.

 

"Harry, he's that bad."

 

"You say that because he did not say you were the best," laughed the red-head seated in front of them.

 

She scowled whereas Harry chuckled.

 

"You're damn right Ron, she's outraged at the lack of acknowledgment," he stated looking at her with fondness.

 

She pouted sensing they were just teasing her. She took Ron's beer and drunk a bit from it.

 

"Shouldn't you get to bed early tonight for the rehearsal tomorrow ?"

 

She glanced at her friend with a tight smile.

 

"I have work tonight, I'll sleep at the end of my shift."

 

Harry frowned making her sigh.

 

"You shouldn't take up so much work."

 

"I agree 'Mione," nodded Ron taking his beer back, "this ain't a joke, especially if your new conductor is as much of an arse as you make him out to be."

 

She rubbed her face with her hands. It was an old argument, was never settled and would probably never be.

 

"As I've said, countless times, I need this job to pay for rent, for food and well, other things for my violin," she grumbled without looking at them.

 

Although she had her eyes closed, she knew their reaction. Harry was probably making big, indignant eyes at Ron who just shrugged, knowing they could not do much to deter her.

 

"Why won't you accept a bit of money from us Hermione ?" asked for what the hundredth time Harry.

 

She glared at him. She would rather work more than to accept money from her friends. They were generous but still, it did not sit right with her.

 

"She's too damn proud."

 

"Can we _please_ stop talking about that !" she exclaimed loudly throwing her hands in the air causing a few heads to turn in the pub.

 

Harry grumbled but eventually they both nodded their approval.

 

"Thank you."

 

Ron looked at her intensely. His gaze unsettled her, she could almost see him think. His brown eyes reminded her of Dumbledore's, they were so alive.

 

"You know 'Mione, if you know your concerto by heart, as a soloist I mean, you'll probably end up getting the job if the current soloist is that bad."

 

She smiled fondly.

 

"You're right Ron. I'll show him !"

 

They chuckled and all three shared a meaningful look, full of affection for each other. Then Ron sighed and put his mug back on the table before slowly standing.

 

"I'd better go, Fred and Georges want to bake the bread earlier for tomorrow since they have to cater during the afternoon."

 

Hermione stood up in turn putting her hand on his arm.

 

"I'll go with you I have to get to work anyway."

 

"Way to leave me alone," laughed Harry.

 

They waved him goodbye and left the pub. London was not cold that night, although it was rather cool. There was still a bit of light, the days were getting longer, they were already in June. Soon, the new Opera season would begin.

 

They began to walk in the same direction as the Weasley's bakery was in the same neighbourhood as Hermione's job as a seamstress at Ollivander's shop.

 

"Harry worries about you," said Ron softly.

 

She blinked. She did not expect him to be so blunt about it.

 

"I know he does..."

 

"And I do too 'Mione." He glanced at her. "You're looking more tired than ever, I understand your dilemma but sometimes, you've got to put your pride aside and be a bit more... pragmatic."

 

She shook her head, frowning. She knew she was bloody-minded. In a way, she even felt she was wrong.

 

"I can't Ron," she said, hardening her voice.

 

She abruptly stopped and avoided his eyes that were seeking hers.

 

"It's my turn, see you."

 

"Wait Hermione," he exclaimed wrapping his warm hand around her sleeved arm.

 

His eyes were worried. She was about to pull out from his embrace when he suddenly enveloped her in his arms, pressing her against his comfortably warm and hard chest. She relaxed in his hold and circled him with her arms in return.

 

"You know we support you no matter what right ?"

 

She smiled against his shoulder. Of course she knew that. They had each other's back.

 

"Of course I know that."

 

He released her grinning.

 

"Ok, now you can go."

 

She laughed at his antics. Even if she was sometimes angry at her friends for trying to tell her what to do, she loved them deeply.

 

"Have a good night and day at work oh my shining knight in armour !" she beamed.

 

"You too m'lady," he said mimicking a curtsey.

 

They went their separate ways laughing.

 

* * *

 

Tom took a glass of champagne from one of the running-around servants. This evening was proving to be as boring as he thought it would be. After their concert, the Lestrange couple had congratulated them but in the end, no one in the assistance _understood_ music, their terribly lethal interpretation of it.

 

He sipped from the glass. It was good champagne. He hummed in appreciation, gazing at the crowd.

 

It was an epiphany of decadence. Women adorned with pearls, jewels and feathers, colourful birds they were, matched by men in black, pumas waiting to bite into the bird's flesh. Of course the laughs and colours of said birds were deceptive. Only fools were, well, fooled by them. Everyone was engrossed in political debates, or artistic considerations. To summarize, they were all blabbering about matters that they, in Tom's opinion, understood little about.

 

One of the birds slowly made its way towards him. He could see her looking at him from across the room, very slowly, almost sensually, splitting the crowd.

 

She was rather pretty he supposed. She had blond hair, although it was so pale it might as well be white, tied in a Gibson Girl hairdo. It was donned with pearls. They became pink in the light. The same pink as her dress that loosely hugged her rather admirable figure. Her shoulders were elegantly covered in chiffon.

 

She gave him a smile when she noticed his gaze. He nodded in acknowledgement. Maybe he should take up on the opportunity to distract himself.

 

Suddenly, someone called her name, rather dull, disappointing, and she turned. He could see her long white neck. He was stricken by the absence of loose curls. The Granger girl's hair had been a mess this afternoon. She had almost as much hair down on her neck as up in her bun. He was almost disappointed not to see loose curls such as Granger's on the blonde girl's neck.

 

Finally she turned back to him with the same smile in place. She managed to come near him.

 

"Good evening, Lord Voldemort," she said with a soft voice. "It an honour to finally meet you."

 

As any proper girl she held her hand out to him. Granger had barely greeted him. Why was he thinking about that stupid girl again ?

 

"Good evening, Lady... ?" he answered courteously taking the offered hand and barely touching the glove with his lips.

 

"Greengrass, Daphne Greengrass."

 

Right, dull. He released her hand and gave her the charming smile he gave most people of the Court.

 

" _Enchanté_ Lady Greengrass."

 

She giggled. Duller than expected. He glanced about to see if there was someone actually interesting to talk to. Of course, no one. He sighed internally. It was going to be a long evening.

 

"So you are a conductor at the Opera ?"

 

"Yes, I am."

 

She blushed under his gaze.

 

"I will be at the opening, I dare say I am quite the connoisseur of Tchaikovsky."

 

He raised one of his eyebrows. Was she about to give him a lesson on a composer ?

 

"Then I hope you'll like my rendition of one of his masterpieces."

 

"I am sure I will. Although I am more looking forward to the Opera's rendition of the Nutcracker. Will you conduct that one too ?"

 

His jaw ticked. He was a serious conductor. He did not conduct ballets or operas. What was the point if your orchestra was not what the public focused on ?

 

"No I will not. It will probably be one of my colleagues."

 

She frowned.

 

"Oh, well, that is too bad..."

 

Tom noticed one of his Deatheaters, Mulciber, waving at him in the back of the ballroom. He almost growled. If it meant Avery was drunk again, he was going to kill him.

 

"Excuse me Lady Greengrass but there is a matter which urgently requires my attention," he smiled giving her a small bow. "I look forward to seeing you at the Opera's opening."

 

She beamed at him and returned the curtsey. Did she think she had charmed him ? Sometimes, well, most times, women puzzled Tom. He strode across the ballroom not stopping for more idle chatter. When he was next to Mulciber, he turned to see the Greengrass girl. She was talking with a handsome young man. Once again, the sight of her neck bare from loose curls sparked disappointment in him, as though something was missing.

 

He did not dwell on the feeling as he had important business to take care of. Well important was putting it nicely.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, quick update, I'm currently feeling inspired ! Although I'll soon go on a trip so I might not update for a little while. I still hope you'll like that chapter. And I want to make sure everyone knows I thinks every musician in an orchestra is important ! If Tom and Hermione think about mere musicians, it is because of their ambition, not necessarily grounded in contempt. They just do not want that for themselves.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy !

Hermione woke up to the sound of someone pounding on her already creaking door.

 

"What ?" she yelled to the irritating person.

 

A brown-haired girl with almond black eyes came into her room and crossed her arms.

 

"Hermione Jean Granger, it's 8:30, you told me to wake you up at 7:30, you woke up, and now I find you back in bed ?" she asked in a cold voice.

 

Hermione's voice widened. It was already 8:30 ?

 

"Oh fuck," she whispered, quickly standing up. "I'm sorry Parvati, thank you, thank you so much for coming back."

 

Parvati nodded stiffly and left letting Hermione alone, panicked. She undressed, throwing her nightgown on her messy bed, she would take care of that later. She violently opened her wardrobe, sending the already wobbly door crashing into the floor. She sighed, she did not have time for that right now. She peeked at the inside of the wardrobe. Dresses, skirts, trousers. She did not have enough time to get into a dress. Trousers it was.

 

She took a pair of high-waist canvas trousers, black, and a white shirt. She would wear a cloak to hide the trousers. She did not want to make a bad impression at the first rehearsal but fuck it was comfier than those bloody skirts.

 

She quickly dressed and got to the small mirror facing her window. Well, her hair was a mess on the days were she took the time to carefully pin it to her skull. It was going to be a disaster. She took a few pins and set to work. In a matter of twenty minutes she managed to get a pretty decent bun, Gibson Girl style. It would have to do.

 

She took her coat from her chair, it was black so at least it matched the trousers, and put on her boots. Finally she went for the door when she chuckled to herself. She had almost forgot her violin. She carefully put in her holder with the bow, took her satchel and left.

 

It was approximately 9:15 so she should be at the Opera House by 9:45. It would give her plenty of time to tune her violin.

 

* * *

 

Tom rubbed his face with his hands before glancing back at the form in his bed. He just _had_ to take the Greengrass girl home when he had a rehearsal the next day ! If he kept going this way, he might just become as stupid as other human beings.

 

He quickly dressed in his conductor suit, deciding it was better to leave her be in his rooms. She would find the exit herself. He took his baton after having approved of his looks, his hair was combed effortlessly, or at least done to look as much. As handsome as ever.

 

He exited his rooms and quickly went down the stairwell to the room where they would rehearse that day. He entered the room which was already half full. He looked at his wristwatch, a gift from his friend the colonel Dolohov. It was 9:40. As usual, he would initiate tuning at 9:45.

 

He approached his music stand where the pieces he had chosen for the day were. He smiled. The new assistant was good. Not like the last one which always came late, so around 9:50, with the pieces.

 

With his arrival the chatter was slowly dying down. He surveyed his orchestra. Some of the musicians were smiling, others studying that day's sheet music. Suddenly a movement caught his eye.

 

He raised his head fully. Granger. She entered the room with confidence, just as she had came into his office the day before. Her hair was similarly dishevelled although he noticed less curls adorning her neck. Maybe it would fall down throughout the day. She was wearing a rather heavy coat for a June day.

 

She went straight for her seat at the furthest position of the violin section from him. She was probably pissed of by it. If she was, she did not let it show. She sat and put her holder carefully by her side before shaking out of her coat.

 

He turned back to his orchestra. 

 

"We will begin tuning in five."

 

At that moment Avery came into the room, looking smug. The Granger girl was probably right saying it was a mistake to have made him a soloist. He had always been good, but never talented. She, on the other hand, had raw talent, a sort of violence. It matched her wild curls.

  

* * *

 

 

Hermione got her violin out of her holder and began examining its strings with great care. She heard footsteps and raised her head. An eerie blond girl was staring at her. She was wearing a yellow ensemble, a great contrast with the black and white usual colour code.

 

"Can I help you ?" asked Hermione puzzled by the stare.

 

The girl smiled and held out her hand. Hermione shook it bewildered.

 

"I'm Luna," she said softly, "I'm one of the flutists."

 

Hermione smiled.

 

"Nice to meet you, I'm Hermione, one of the violinist."

 

The expression hurt her ego quite a bit but it would not do to lie, especially to herself.

 

"We could get a cup of coffee sometime," she said, not wanting to be alone in this new orchestra, she needed new friends.

 

Luna's mien seemed to come alive. She beamed and shook Hermione's hand with more force.

 

"I would love to ! Plus you know, coffee keeps evil spirits at bay !"

 

She let go of Hermione's hand and quickly went back to her own seat, hopping. Hermione frowned. Evil spirits ? Was she going to be friends with someone who believed in that kind of horseshit ?

 

She did not have time to ponder on that as the orchestra fell silent, the few conversations that had started again dying down.

 

A few seconds later, a black-haired man, quite pale, stood up. He held his violin and began giving the tune to follow. She got into position and adjusted her instrument.

 

Finally he sat down when everyone had managed to get in tune.

 

She glanced at Riddle. He was as pale and inexpressive as ever. He swept a cold look over them.

 

"We will begin the rehearsal. Today will be dedicated to more familiar pieces. We will only start Tchaikovsky tomorrow. I want you to know each other, to familiarize yourselves with one another, in order not to butcher a masterpiece."

 

She scowled. She would not be the one slaughtering Tchaikovsky's concerto but the brown-haired man, who looked similar to a beaver with his large teeth and small nose, Avery, would.

 

"We will start off easy with the opening of _The Thieving Magpie_ , Rossini's opera."

 

He slowly raised his arms and Hermione noted they were longer than she expected. They were slender and quite, elegant. He held his baton as though it was simply an extension of his arm. His gestures were precise, concise, sharp.

 

She kept her eyes on him and got into position, following the drums’ part along with her companions. At least, even if the piece was not a soloist's one, it was entertaining. She had always liked the sheer joy and excitement that Rossini's opening exuded.

 

Riddle's eyes were hard and merely stopped on Avery a few times. She noticed the way his jaw ticked under his white skin every time he did. He was quite talented, she had to give it to him. She like his version of the piece, not too fast but not too slow either.

 

She concentrated on her playing, it would not do to stare at her conductor's face and not at his hands or at her music sheet.

 

Finally it was Luna's part. Hermione had to admit she was quite talented, she was not blowing too hard as Macmillan had in her old orchestra.

 

For all Hermione's looking around, it was clear this piece was easy. She had no trouble following her companion's rhythm, having done so for the last year as McGonagall's first violin.

 

She smiled when she saw a violinist two rows in front of her furiously moving in accordance with the growing rhythm. She saw the man on his left wincing in fear of being on the receiving end of his bow.

 

With a chuckle she went back to the conductor's hands. And then back to her companions. Well, it was just like last year. She was already bored.

 

* * *

 

 

Albus Dumbledore was watching with a small smile the conductor. He knew he could feel his gaze on his back. It showed because of his tense shoulders.

 

He looked at the Granger girl. Minerva had talked quite a lot to him about her. He could see her talent as well. She held her bow in a sort of careless, free, terribly light way. She almost embraced her violin in her languorous gestures. She seemed bored as he could see her glancing everywhere but at Tom's hands or at her music sheet.

 

He chuckled. Talented and ambitious, he knew the combination.

 

Finally the piece ended. It had been rather well played for the first run of a new orchestra.

 

"Well, we're not about to start Tchaikovsky," stated Tom coldly.

 

Albus frowned. He knew he ought not to be surprised by Tom's coldness by now but it still rattled him. He stood up and left the room. He would come back when they got to Tchaikovsky, he wanted to see if the Granger girl would end up taking Avery's position or not.

 

* * *

 

 

Tom visibly relaxed when he did not feel Dumbledore breathing down his neck anymore. He glanced back up at his musicians. They all looked abashed, humiliated by his remark. Then he saw her, she was not repentant, she was frowning, her nose crunched up in disapproval.

 

He looked at her and grinned. He would unwind a bit and who cared if she was on the receiving end of his animosity ?

 

"Avery, we'll do a solo piece."

 

She frowned even harder now looking at the soloist with barely concealed disgust.

 

"Mendelssohn, violin concerto in E minor, opus 64," he slowly enunciated, still watching her with rapture.

 

Her lips parted and heat crept up her face. She glared at him. It was the piece he had asked for her to play during her audition. From the look she was giving him, she clearly thought her rendition was sure to be better than Avery's.

 

Oh but he would not let her play it as a soloist, he would confine her as a _vulgar_ violinist.

 

God Dumbledore almost always gave him the desire to crush someone. Would it bother him if he crushed the Granger's girl hopes ? Probably. Tom was willing to take the chance.

 

He turned to his orchestra and if his musicians had noticed him staring at Granger, they did not show it. He raised his arms slowly.

 

Then he heard someone clear his throat. He raised an eyebrow and stared down at Avery whose face had gotten alarmingly red.

 

"I don't know it..."

 

Of course his plans of ruining the Granger girl for Dumbledore was put in jeopardize by this utter idiot. He glanced at the victim in question. She was smiling smugly, looking at him expectantly. He blinked. He would not succumb to petty rage.

 

"Well," he articulated with difficulty, "you can borrow someone's music sheet for today."

 

He gave Avery a tight smile. When he looked at his orchestra he saw several of his musicians blatantly staring at him disbelievingly. Was he that stern usually ?

 

Well he might be stern, but he was above all that pretty bent on destroying someone. If it meant not killing every idiot, then so be it.

 

The soloist took the first violin's sheet music, Nott jaw's was hardened and he scooted closer to his neighbour. Avery set into position.

 

"Allegro molto appassionato," said Tom.

 

The orchestra set in motion with his hands. God he loved that power. But he quickly noticed something was amiss. He let his hands fall and sighed.

 

"What now Avery ?"

 

The man reddened even more. He would soon look like a well cooked lobster. A bit overcooked.

 

"It's a difficult piece," he muttered, "I can't master it instantly."

 

Now Tom would usually fire the incompetent musicians and ask one of his companions to replace him. But the Granger girl was probably just waiting for that. It would not do to give her hope. He did not want her hope to even have a reason to subsist.

 

"I understand," he said through gritted teeth, desperately trying to show compassion and not despise, "we'll take a ten minutes break and you can study it."

 

"Twenty would be nice."

 

"Twenty it is."

 

He would maybe reconsider that whole 'let's not murder Avery to torture Granger' plan. God she knew the piece by heart and she had not even ever been a soloist. The musicians started to talk while Avery began to stare intently at the music sheet. Ridiculous. 

 

"Mister Riddle ?"

 

Talk of the devil.

 

"Yes ?" he sighed looking down at the wild-haired girl.

 

"Maybe I could replace Avery for Mendelssohn's piece ?"

 

Tom grinned. Time to unwind.

 

"Dear, I'm not going to ask a _mere_ violinist to try and play a masterpiece am I ? Go back to your seat and try to read the orchestra's part."

 

She reddened. It was not the same red as Avery. It was less splotchy and more even. Her lips were so tight they were redder than her face. But looking at her eyes one quickly understood she had not reddened because of some shame. It was the result of rising anger.

 

Tom does not know if he imagined it. But he swears that at that moment, two strings of curls fell down her hairdo to done her neck.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several of you were kind enough to tell me my mistakes, thank you very much ! I don't know how to find a Beta ? If someone knows please tell me in the comments.
> 
> Anyway thank you all for your support, I hope you like this new chapter although there's not much Tom/Hermione interactions.

"Dear, would you be so kind as to finish this lace belt before leaving ?"

 

Hermione gave a tired look to her employer. Her eyes were aching from working all night on the embroidery of this belt with only the light of a few candles. She gave him a weary smile.

 

"Sure Sir."

 

He nodded with a tight smile and went to inspect other girls' works. She sighed and went back to work. She had already jabbed herself a few times with her needle, thankfully not drawing any blood. But the motif she had to sew was intricate and it took her time.

 

"Hermione !" the girl next to her whispered.

 

"Yes ?"

 

"I can finish it for you," smiled Parvati.

 

Hermione shook her head. She would finish it herself. She turned back to her needlework.

 

"Hermione !"

 

She threw her an annoyed look. "What ?"

 

"You're bloody useless that tired, go home," whispered the girl furiously.

 

She frowned. She was never _useless_. Anyway she could not go home now, she had told Ollivander she would finish.

 

"Bloody hell..."

 

Parvati took the needle from Hermione's hand ignoring her outraged gasp. She then pulled the belt towards her and gave her friend a stern look.

 

"Now go. I'll wake you when I come home."

 

Hermione thought for a second about protesting. But she could feel her hands and arms praying her to stop, tired by the needlework and the rehearsal of the day. So she gave a small smile to her friend and squeezed her shoulder.

 

"Thanks Parv', I owe you a coffee."

 

"You owe me countless coffees," chuckled the girl setting to work.

 

Hermione laughed quietly. "Sure do, one day I'll give you enough chicory to be energized till your death."

 

Her friend snorted. They shared an amused look. Hermione stood up, squeezed Parvati's shoulder one last time and left the shop unnoticed by its old manager.

 

The streets were as empty as London streets could be. It was that time of night were only shady people hung out outside. But Hermione was used to it. Her hair seemed to repel any potential assailants. So she could enjoy watching people. Well, she was not about to provoke anyone either.

 

She walked fast, in order to get to her room quickly. She did not want to be too exhausted at the Opera House. Shadows passed by her in the streets, most people walking hurriedly.

 

Finally she was in her flat. She quickly got in her nightgown and fell on her bed, rapidly succumbing to a deep sleep.

 

* * *

 

"Today, we start working on Tchaikovsky !" exclaimed the conductor with a feral smile.

 

Hermione was trembling. Because of exhaustion, because of excitement and because of frustration. But she quickly got into position with the other violinists. She would not, she _could not_ fail even if she was not the soloist.

 

She stared at Avery, despising him. For once, there was no hatred in the look she gave him but her contempt was still visible. The man stood grinning sharing boastful looks with other musicians. What an arse.

 

"Everyone focus, we're starting."

 

She went back to looking at Riddle's hands. Slender, pale, elegant. They slowly rose before carefully lowering. Her mind had been blanked by her lack of sleep so she followed his lead numbly not even watching her companions. Simply watching his hands was tiring. They moved. And so did her arm and fingers. It was funny, how quickly they had to move, to answer her brain's commands. She stared at her fingers, slowly making notes out of pressing cords. Excruciatingly slowly.

 

"Miss Granger !"

 

The roar brought her back to reality. She blinked and looked at the conductor. He was glaring at her leaning over his music stand. She frowned. Why was he angry at _her_ ?

 

"Play at the same rhythm as your comrades," he hissed.

 

Hermione blinked again. Had she not been doing just that ? Fuck her exhaustion was taking a toll on her. Parvati had been right, tired, she was just useless.

 

"Of course sir," she nodded with determination.

 

The handsome man straightened and finally looked elsewhere. He rose his arms and gave her a last pointed look.

 

"Focus."

 

The orchestra began to play the intro again. She frowned, forcing herself to remain focused on Riddle's hands or at the very least her companions'. It was proving to be hard but finally, it was Avery's turn to play.

 

She grimaced. Maybe she had not been in harmony with the other violinists but at least she had been playing in tune. He was not that bad but he was butchering the complexity of the piece.

 

She glanced at Riddle. He was unrelentingly staring at the soloist jaw hardened. His hands were tightly gripping the stand. He did not seem to appreciate Avery's 'talent'.

 

"Stop," he finally whispered.

 

The soloist immediately dropped his violin losing all his arrogance.

 

"Avery, I know you're a better musician than, _that_."

 

The violinist's face was overwhelmed with red, a splotchy kind of red. His face reminded Hermione of the time Parvati had cut herself while working on a white lace piece. The white had slowly withdrawn in front of the red. It was uneven. It was not a pretty sight.

 

"Again."

 

Hermione gave a soft sigh. Her little break was over. This was going to be a long, long day.

 

* * *

 

 

Tom sighed and rubbed his eyes.

 

"Again," he drawled icily.

 

The musician in front of him audibly gulped before going back to playing. It was not good enough. Tom slammed his hands on his desk and glared at Avery who cowed.

 

"You're not nearly that bad in the Deatheaters, why are you suddenly so _unsure_ , so _indelicate_ ! This is a bloody violin ! Treat it with respect and you might play in tune !"

 

The man, although the values traditionally associated to that noun were not those of Avery, whimpered. He apparently had neither courage nor pride. Tom settled back in his chair and set his glare firmly on the man once more. He was fidgeting under his scrutiny. Good, let him know he was not as untouchable as he might want to believe himself to be.

 

As Avery raised his violin to his shoulders shakingly, Tom stared at him unwavering.

 

"What, what should I play sir ?"

 

He scowled. Did he have absolutely no memory ?

 

"Mendelsohn’s," he spat, "again."

 

"It's a bit hard without an orchestra..."

 

Although Avery had barely mumbled the words, as soon as they left his mouth, Tom was by his side, grabbing the collar of his shirt. Turned out Avery was not trembling before, but he certainly was now.

 

"I think I am rather merciful for this impromptu séance of teaching as I could simply have humiliated you, no, _annihilated_ you in front of the whole orchestra."

 

Avery shivered; unable to tear his eyes from Tom's grey ones, threatening him.

 

"You should be grateful, on your bloody knees," he hissed.

 

Tom's hand holding the collar twitched. He would not, _could_ not punch his soloist and his Deatheaters' violinist. So he relinquished his hold and stepped back. Avery stumbled until he found the support of a wall.

 

"Mendelsohn. Now."

 

* * *

 

 

The rehearsal had stopped earlier than it had the day before. Normally it would have bothered Hermione but she had been craving a good sleep ever since she awoke that morning. So she could not fathom the reason why she had accepted to take a coffee with Luna. She had probably nodded because gravity, and sleep-deprivation, had been pulling her head down.

 

The blonde girl had seemed, and apparently remained, oblivious to her tiredness.

 

"So do you want any milk or sugar in your coffee ?" she asked in an aerial voice.

 

"No thanks..."

 

Luna nodded and went to the bar to get milk for her own coffee. Hermione's head only support by now was her hands, holding her up. Maybe it was rude to have her elbows on the table but she could not find it in herself to care.

 

"You know you should add milk in your coffee, it is supposed to keep spirits at bay."

 

Was she already asleep ? Or was Luna one of these loonies ?

 

"Yeah," mumbled Hermione taking her steaming cup of coffee, "I don't believe in spirits so..."

 

The girl in front of her smiled and took a sip of her own beverage. Her eyes were sparkling with brightness and kindness. Hermione relaxed, she need not be so harsh.

 

"That's okay not everyone can see or hear them !"

 

She almost answered with a snort but reminded herself of her decision. No need to be aggressive. "Guess I just don't have it in me then."

 

"We can talk about something else if you want !"

 

Hermione's eyebrow rose. She took a big, comforting and warm, gulp of her coffee.

 

"Do you want to talk about Opera business ?"

 

The blonde shrugged. "Sure, but I don't know much gossip."

 

"Well," smiled Hermione, "not knowing much means knowing a little, what do you know ?"

 

"I know that Neville is in love with a certain cellist."

 

"Really ? Who ?"

 

Luna leaned closer, a playful smile stretching her pink lips. "Zabini."

 

Hermione gasped. She had only met those people recently but still, it was juicy gossip. Even her, who did not often indulge in such trivial matters, knew it. It was nice to have a somewhat superficial relationship with someone from work. She never listened to the gossip Parvati tried to tell her.

 

"Wow, does he reciprocate ?"

 

The girl shrugged, drinking the last drop of black energy. "I think he does, but he's less obvious than Neville and I'm not a keen observer."

 

Hermione nodded with a small smile. Yes, she could imagine Luna not being that good of an observer with her aerial manners and spiritual beliefs.

 

"Anyway I'll guess we'll see at the Opera's summer party, if they dance or something."

 

She frowned. Summer party ? She had been at the Opera for more than a year and she had never heard of such an event. Luna seemed to notice her confusion.

 

"It's organized by Riddle so there's only his orchestra."

 

"What's the point ?"

 

"I don't know but it usually comes after the toughest weeks of rehearsals in the beginning of July."

 

"How long have you been playing in his orchestra ?"

 

"About three years, he's very nice once you get used to his manners."

 

Luna's smile was peaceful and sincere. It was hard for Hermione to reconcile her depiction of Riddle and her impression of him.

 

"Yeah I'm not used to them," she smiled sheepishly.

 

"He can be rather blunt. And unfair. But he always ends up acknowledging talent."

 

Hermione shrugged. Despite the coffee, her exhaustion was really taking a toll on her. She could feel how heavy her limbs were, as if her veins and arteries had been filled with lead while she was not looking.

 

"If you're in his orchestra, it's because you're worth something," smiled the blonde. "Even Neville who can be quite clumsy is a marvellous violinist once he's surrounded with others. Riddle has a way of finding people who will play well with each others, not necessarily as soloists."

 

Hermione glanced at Luna. She was smiling dreamily as though remembering something pleasant.

 

"Well, I'll let you go, you seem terribly tired."

 

She blinked. She had thought the girl completely unaware of her exhaustion. Luna grinned.

 

"I'm not totally oblivious to my surroundings you know. But it was nice getting a cup of coffee, I hope we can do it again when you're more alive and less bothered by spirits."

 

"What have spirits to do with my tiredness ?" frowned the bushy-haired woman.

 

The blonde shrugged and stood before shaking Hermione's hand.

 

"They pretty much explain everything in my opinion. See you tomorrow Hermione !"

 

Hermione could not help but smile. The girl was weird, but she was nice and she had the feeling they could become friends.

 

"See you Luna."

 

When she got home, she would probably fall on her bed and not wake up for a good ten hours. Fortunately she did not have a shift at Ollivander's that night.

 

As Hermione undressed and pulled on her used-to-be-white nightgown, she thought back on what Luna had said. If Riddle was as fair as she said he was, he would probably make her first violin before the end of the rehearsal period. She nodded vigorously. She would work thrice as hard to make that happen. Her talent was undeniable, all she had to do was perfect her technique, and show her determination.

 

As she slipped under her small frayed sheet, she decided not to complain visibly or audibly about Avery in front of the conductor anymore. Being bitter was not helping her. She would pretend she was fine with her position. Even if it was far from the truth.

 

She gave her violin a longing look. Had she been less tired, she would probably have worked on Tchaikovsky again. But Hermione remembered Parvati's words. Tired, she was bloody useless.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, as you can well see. I hope you like it as I enjoyed writing it, especially because of what will follow...
> 
> Anyway, now I have a Tumblr account : ffourultraviolence. You can ask me questions there and I take requests !
> 
> Have a nice day/evening :)

Tom was utterly dumbfounded by the newly acquired mediocrity of one of the musician of his quartet, Avery. They were rehearsing for the private concert they had to give the next day and he seemed absolutely incapable of playing in tune with the others.

 

"I swear to God," he vociferated, "if you can't play one note in tune, you're fired from the Deatheaters and I'll make sure you do not ever join another quartet !"

 

The man cowered. He had been terrified of him ever since he had had his private lesson with him two weeks ago. Coward and ungrateful, two traits Tom despised.

 

"I'm sorry..."

 

" _Don't_ fucking apologize ! Play !"

 

The four musicians scrambled into place and started to play the Dissonance Quartet by Mozart.

 

"Allegro," roared Tom, "for Christ's sake this is allegro !"

 

Avery _whimpered_. Tom was getting tired of that too.

 

"You're fired from the quartet Avery."

 

With a sob, the man quickly exited the room. Tom sighs and rubs his face. The two previous weeks of rehearsal had been trying. Avery's playing had only worsened and he did not have a way to release the pressure as he did before as the Granger girl, he had stopped thinking of her as the Granger woman as it gave her some sort of distinction she did not deserve in his mind, was not as easy to rile up as she used to be. In fact, she was calmer than ever and had even fucking _smiled_ at a sweating Avery and it was not fake.

 

"What do we do now ?"

 

He glanced at his cellist, Zabini.

 

"We find a violin to replace Avery."

 

The musician frowned. "They won't be used to playing with us."

 

"I know," he stated coldly. "We just need someone with enough talent that we can pull it off, anyway we're not playing for experts !"

 

"Longbottom ?" suggested Nott. "He's good enough."

 

"No, he's good in an orchestra but he's likely to lose his composure in a quartet."

 

"Flinch-Fletchley ?"

 

Nott snorted before Tom could. "He moves so much he might knock out one member of the assistance !"

 

They snickered and even Tom smirked.

 

"What about Granger ?"

 

His head snapped up and he glared at Mulciber, his viola player. "What about her ?"

 

Nott moved, uncomfortable, on his chair, sending Mulciber looks of warning. If he thought Tom did not notice him, he was more stupid than he appeared.

 

"Well, she's quite good from what I've seen, I mean she's comfortable with her instrument and the music sheets... She'll probably learn them in no time..."

 

Tom's jaw ticked. Firs of all, he had not expected others would notice her, and her talent. Mulciber was quite the observer but still, he would have to be careful, he could not be completely unfair to her if people knew she was talented. Second, how dare he offer her as Avery's replacement ? It would probably mean the world to her. She would immediately think of herself as his Tchaikovsky's soloist when he had not even fired Avery on that job.

 

"I agree with Mulciber," nodded Zabini, composure as cool as ever.

 

He frowned. Tom was not much of democrat when it came to the way he conducted his quartet but still, if three of his, well now three, musicians agreed, he could not really go against them. It would be petty and useless. And Tom hated uselessness.

 

"Nott ?"

 

"To be honest she's the best of the violins," the man stated giving him a confident look.

 

He refrained from sighing. He could still impose another violinist, one of the orchestra, but they would be mediocre at best. But maybe taking Granger in was not so bad. After all, he could let her understand she would take Avery's place in the orchestra and then crush her hopes again. He would therefore have control over the whole situation, not that she or the others would know it.

 

"You're right, she seems to be the best option. I'll talk to her after the rehearsal tomorrow."

 

They all nodded and went back to playing, because of the lack of second violin, Tom could not help but cringe at the disharmony.

 

* * *

 

 

"Spew ? That's the name you come up with Granger ?"

 

Hermione sighed and gave Pansy Parkinson an annoyed look. "It is pronounced S P U W not spew at all. It stands for Social and Political Union for and by Women."

 

Parkinson frowned. "You're basically taking the WSPU name and changing the order of the letters..."

 

"Maybe, but it is only an association for the opera I can't see why it matters."

 

The black-haired girl pinched her lips. "It doesn't you're right."

 

Hermione gave her a tight-lip smile before looking at the women assembled in the room. "So we all agree to campaign for women's rights ? Especially votes and you know, equal education and basically everything else ?"

 

All the musicians nodded. There were only a dozen but then, only about twenty women worked in the Royal Opera House, if you did not count the cantatrices. About a week ago, one of the viola players, Parkinson had suggested to Hermione that they created an association to defend women's rights, saying that she thought Hermione had enough spite to maybe not be completely useless. Of course, she had accepted.

 

"Now that Granger has found us a horrible name," exclaimed Parkinson standing up, "let's allot the jobs !"

 

The women in front of the pair began to chat up excitedly. Pansy sat again and gave Hermione a smirk.

 

"I have to admit Parkinson, you have the qualities of a leader."

 

"Thank you dear," smiled the woman mischievously, "I know."

 

Luna in the front row raised her hand, bringing the pair's attention back to the matter at hand. "Yes Luna ?"

 

"I can be in charge of a paper ? I know one or two things about printing and writing..."

 

Hermione beamed. "That's a great idea ! That way we can keep up with potential advances or strikes !"

 

"Yeah if she writes about that," quietly snorted Pansy. Hermione threw her a dark look. "What ? She's a bit in her own bubble..."

 

"I can keep a log of our meetings..." The suggestion came from a frail looking woman whom Hermione had known in McGonagall's orchestra, Hannah Abbott if she remembered correctly.

 

"Alright, your name please ?"

 

"Hannah Abbott."

 

"Great, you can start right now !" grinned Pansy giving the woman her own notebook and pen before winking at Hermione.

 

She chuckled. Pansy could be insufferable, especially when it came to gossip, but Hermione had learned in the past week that she was also deeply committed and could be kind, under the cover of being mean of course.

 

"Two more jobs I think Granger ? Treasurer and leader ?"

 

"Yeah any volunteer ?"

 

The women shrugged seemingly not enthusiastic about the activities.

 

"Well looks like I'm treasurer," sighed Pansy dramatically, "since Granger probably sucks at handling money and likes to boss everyone around..."

 

Hermione blushed as the members of SPUW chuckled light-heartedly. "Alright I'll be the leader..."

 

Pansy grinned. "We know you're happy to sacrifice yourself for us ! Anyway, when's the first strike ? Don't tell me you don't have it already planned out Granger, I've seen how you memorize music sheets in no time, that brain of yours has to be put to use."

 

"Well," smirked Hermione, "we have rehearsal with Riddle tomorrow. I thought we could go there wearing trousers. Since it is no really allowed, or is very much frowned upon, it could be our first sign of protest !"

 

"What about the ones who aren't in Riddle orchestra ?" asked a stout looking woman.

 

"They could sit in the boxes and watch the rehearsal ! Maybe with banners ! I checked and those of you who are not in Riddle's orchestra don't have a rehearsal tomorrow ! We could do the same the day after but then we would all come to McGonagall's rehearsal ! Although, she told me she wanted to be a part of the association but could not come today so I don't know if it's right to strike at her-"

 

"Okay Granger, breathe," smiled Pansy. "So girls, what do you think about her plan ?"

 

The grins spreading across the room were telling. Hermione was a little out of breath. She could feel her cheeks were hot from her excitation. But she could not help but smile when she saw her companions' reactions. Her frustration after two weeks of bearing Avery's mediocre playing had found a way out in this activity. Plus it was for a cause she believed in.

 

"Good first spew meeting !" yelled Pansy making all of them laugh. Well except Hermione who corrected her pronunciation. She liked Parkinson's jokes but still, it was pronounced S-P-U-W. Not spew. Furthermore SPEW was actually the name of another association since 1859, Society for Promoting the Employment of Women. Not to get mixed up. Of course, Pansy did not care that much about Hermione's speech.

 

* * *

 

 

Tom was in a bad mood. Last night Daphne Greengrass had come to seek him out at the Opera. She had said she was afraid he would miss her. What a joke. Still, it had been a nice evening, although curl-lacking, until she had started to speak of love and marriage and other matters Tom was not interested in.

 

He had listened and then proceeded to make her want to get out, willingly, of his quarters. Needless to say he had not slept as much as he intended to.

 

Furthermore, if he had accepted his musicians' idea the day before, it did not seem so bright then. Was he willing to endure a rehearsal and then a private concert with the Granger girl just to torture her ?

 

He passed a hand through his hair and entered the room where his orchestra rehearsed. He went straight for his music stand and reviewed the music sheets for the day. Everything was in order. He glanced at his musicians only to see one of his viola players, Parkinson move in the room with a smirk painted on her red-stained lips. He frowned, was she wearing trousers ?

 

"Looking good Parkinson !" yelled Evan Rosier the tuba player.

 

She waved at him before sitting in her seat and throwing Tom a defying look. Then two of the four women in his orchestra entered in trousers too. Lovegood went to her seat seemingly unfazed while Bones visibly blushes before hiding behind her trombone.

 

So it was not only a bad day, it was also a puzzling one.

 

Hearing sound behind him he turned to see a few women sitting in the boxes, probably wearing trousers he mused, setting banners with slogans pro-vote.

 

"Well," he cleared his throat, "I never knew a rehearsal could be so political but thank you ladies for educating us."

 

Some of the men snickered but they shut up when they saw Parkinson's looks. Still as pleasant as ever. "Start tuning please Nott."

 

As Nott rose and began to tune the whole orchestra, Tom noticed Granger was not there yet. He glanced at his watch. It was 9:50. She knew by now that they tuned at approximately that time. And she had never been late before.

 

The moment Nott nodded and sat back down, the whole orchestra fell silent as a loud noise could be heard coming from backstage. A crash resonated in the room and the musicians turned to the door.

 

Granger suddenly came out of it, holding her holster in one hand and her coat in the other. She was panting, her cheeks reddened by shame and physical exhaustion. Her curls were _everywhere_ , framing her face, adorning her neck. They were tantalizing.

 

She apologized profusely and ran to her seat, falling ungracefully in it. If possible, her face became even redder, the pinkish shade spreading to her long throat. She rose and apologized again before moving to go out again.

 

Tom then noticed, she was wearing trousers. Fitting trousers.

 

As she finally disappeared through the door, he realized he had been staring. Fortunately, it was the case of most of the musicians, surprised by how quickly she had gotten in, and out, of the room. He cleared his throat and adjusted his stance.

 

"We'll start rehearsing when miss Granger grants us the pleasure of her presence," he tried to joke, giving a sarcastic tone to his voice.

 

It worked as most of the musicians chuckled and went back to studying their music sheets. Granger entered the room again, a bit less dishevelled, holding her music sheets. Her curls were still at war on the top of her head, tempting, _sinful_. Tom wanted to grab them. But he was above such carnal urges. The woman was infuriating and this trousers act was not going to work on him.

 

"Today, as Avery is sick, we'll rehearse the orchestral part of the concerto. But before, let's have a little fun with William Tell's Overture, by Rossini."

 

From the corner of his eyes, he looked at her setting into position, her ringlets engulfing the wood of her instrument as they were drowning him into a hunger he had rarely experienced before.

  

* * *

 

 

"Granger, stay."

 

Hermione looked at Riddle. He was staring at his music sheets. She scowled. She had intended to go home, rehearse Tchaikovsky and sleep. Nevertheless, he was the conductor. She carefully put her violin away in her holster and stood. As the last musicians and members of SPUW filled out Riddle finally looked at her.

 

"I have a job offer for you."

 

She inhaled sharply. Was he finally going to give her the soloist's position ? After all Avery was sick. Maybe he was badly injured. She could not find it in herself to sympathise with him.

 

"Yes sir ?"

 

She almost cringed. Even in her ears she sounded eager. She hoped it would not deter him. He did not blink at her tone, his dark eyes remaining fixed on hers. She had forgotten how intense his looks were. As though they could burn you, engulf in flaming black oil.

 

"As you know I'm the conductor of a quartet outside the Opera, the Deatheaters."

 

She knew about it. She hated the name. She hated the fact that she was not a part of it.

 

"Avery being sick, I need a violinist to replace him tonight. I want you to be that violinist."

 

Her eyes widened. It sounded a bit more like an order than an actual offer. Still, it was maybe the opportunity of a lifetime.

 

"Sir, tonight ? How could I learn the part ?"

 

He gave her a sharp smile, his eyes unrelentingly cold, yet _burning her_. "I'm sure you already know it Miss Granger, you have quite a repertoire."

 

She did not blush. The compliment felt too forced. But she accepted it with a nod and a tight-lip smile.

 

"I'm flattered sir."

 

"So, you're in."

 

His tone did not allow any hesitation or negative response. She smiled. "I'm in."

 

He nodded. She turned to leave and grabbed her holster. "And Miss Granger ?"

 

"Yes sir ?"

 

"Rehearsal at 5pm in my apartments in the Opera House. Umbridge will tell you where they are. And, no trousers, this is a formal reception."

 

Her nostrils flared but he kept staring at her, his face a blank canvas. She nodded lips tight. "Of course sir. I understand we're not playing for progressive people."

 

He looked at her, thoughtful. "Not exactly, no."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, longer than usual, hope you enjoy !

"Parvati !" yelled Hermione as she knocked on the girl's door.

 

She heard fumbling on the other side before the door opened, revealing a dishevelled Parvati apparently just out of bed. She quickly pushed the bushy-haired girl in the corridor and closed the door behind her.

 

"What ?" she hissed glaring at her.

 

"You're with someone ?"

 

The girl blushed and looked at the ground. "What if I am ?"

 

"Nothing, good to know you're getting some action," giggled Hermione wiggling her eyebrows.

 

Parvati chuckled.

 

"More seriously, I was wondering if you had some formal wear to lend me ? I have a big private concert tonight..."

 

"Of course," she sighed, "just wait here while I'm getting it."

 

Hermione nodded excitedly. Parvati moved to open the door but she turned at the last moment. "You like red don't you ?"

 

"Oh don't you have black ? It's kind of a convention..."

 

"Only red, you lost my only black dress."

 

She blushed. "Red's fine."

 

Parvati shook her head laughing under her breath and went into her room leaving Hermione alone in the corridor. She wrung her hands. What would Riddle say about her coming dressed in red ? He would probably fire her... But then she had no formal wear and he might not have the time to find another replacement. She would fight teeth and nail for this job. Red was actually quite fitting.

 

Her colleague, and friend she guessed, slipped out of her room holding something red, deep red, rather scarlet.

 

"Before you ask, this is a red wine red dress. It's a bit out-dated but not so much someone'll actually notice. And I'd like for you to actually return it."

 

Her smile was warm. Hermione carefully took the soft material and hugged her friend.

 

"Thanks Parv."

 

She released her and gave her a small squeeze on the shoulder. "Go back to your girl."

 

Parvati smirked and waved before slipping back into her room. Hermione chuckled. Her roommate had always be the one popular with the gentlemen and the ladies while Hermione was often disregarded because she looked too fiery. Little did they know Parvati had a character just as bad, if not worst, than Hermione did.

 

She went back to her own room and held out the dress in front of her. She gulped. It was a bit out of character for her, but it would have to do. She glanced at her reflection in her mirror. First, the hair, or rather the mane currently rebelling against the constraint of a bun. She tightened her lips and nodded to herself. She could do this. For her career. For music.

  

* * *

 

 

Tom paced the room brows furrowed. Nott, Mulciber and Zabini were already wearing their dinner jacket and were setting their instruments for the rehearsal in his personal living room. He passed his hand through his silky hair before glancing at his watch. Twenty seconds had passed since he had last done that. It was 4:45 pm. She was late. He glared at the door to his apartments, as if it would make her appear out of nowhere. He was not nervous. He just wanted her to get there right then so they could rehearse.

 

"Sir ?"

 

He turned to Zabini who seemed to look at him expectantly. "Yes ?" he answered words clipped.

 

"How are we getting to Malfoy Manor ? The usual ?"

 

If he knew it was the usual, why was he asking ? "Yes Zabini, that's why it's the usual."

 

The man rolled his eyes at his obvious sarcasm. "Alright sir just wanted to make sure."

 

Tom nodded with the fakest smile he could conjure. He was about to reply to his musician when he froze as someone had knocked on his door. He immediately went to open it. There stood the Opera's manager, Dolores Umbridge. He almost moved backwards when he smelled the strong, flowery, scent of her perfume. Disgusting.

 

"There's a miss Granger in the waiting room insisting she's to meet with you, do you want me to dispose of her sir ?"

 

Her sickly sweet voice did little to attenuate her perfume's corrosive quality. Tom shook his head.

 

"Send her in."

 

The woman pinched her lips seemingly disagreeing with his decision to have the Granger girl in his apartments. Meddling fool. He closed the door as she went to leave. So she may have not been late, it might have only been the result of the toad-like woman managing the place. The woman was quite fond of him, she was one of the few she remembered the name of.

 

A new knocking sound interrupted his thoughts. He opened the door, once again.

 

The Granger woman, _girl_ , was standing in the hallway, spine straight. She met his eyes with confidence. He was reminded of her audition. He let his eyes sweep over her. Her light coat hid her golden skin, not pearly white like the aristocrats, but he could tell he would see more of it once she shed out of it. He focused on her face. Her cheeks were pinker than usual.

 

"May I enter sir ?"

 

She had not managed to wrangle all her curls into her hairdo. They would not be cowed into submission. They were dangling on her pretty neck, like a precious jewel. He suspected the woman herself would not be one easy to cow into submission.

 

"You may."

 

He moved aside from the doorway, letting the woman, _girl_ , entering his apartments. His musicians greeted her and she laughed with them about something. He closed the door, not looking away from her. As she moved with a light chuckle, another wooden curl fell on the amber-coloured expanse of her neck.

 

As she talked, she began to take off her light coat. He leaned on the door, ignored by the chatting quartet. It fell down her upper arms, revealing her tanned shoulders, _naked_. He could see the beginning of her spine. She bent lightly to remove her coat completely. His jaw tensed at the sight of her long neck bent, almost as if it revealed even more tempting skin.

 

She took the coat and put it on her chair. She then turned to him and gave him an expectant look. His musicians imitated her. Her lips were barely parted. He glanced to his music sheets, waiting for him too.

 

He moved towards the quartet, deciding not to give another look to the Granger woman, no she was only a _bloody girl_ , during the whole night. His musicians sat back down, readying their instrument. He pretended to be engrossed in the music sheets as they tuned. Once again, they all chuckled. As though they were _friends_. They did _not_ know each other. Why was she friendly with them ?

 

His head snapped up as she cleared her throat.

 

"Yes miss Granger ?" he drawled icily.

 

"I hope I dressed okay..."

 

His eyes took in her clothes he had not noticed before. She was wearing _red_. Scarlet. Satin and organza. Showing her small waist before blooming, a bloody tide. He felt his jaw twitch. It was a maddening colour.

 

"You did miss Granger." His voice was still hard and unwavering. He went back to looking at his music sheets.

 

"Oh thanks, I was afraid red was not gonna cut it..."

 

"We won't complain, we needed a musician," he cut harshly, "not a fashion expert."

 

She inhaled sharply. He gritted his teeth.

 

"We'll start rehearsing now if you don't have any more superficial questions miss Granger."

 

There was beat of silence. It was almost compelling enough for him to look up. Thankfully, she spoke before he had to do so.

 

"No sir, that was all."

 

He nodded. "Good, so Mozart's Dissonance Quartet, you know it ?"

 

"I do."

 

"So let's start."

 

He raised his arms, eyes fixed on the finely crafted ceiling. The golden arabesques reminded him of her curls. He shook his head. No distraction. He focused on his three usual musicians, deciding to ignore the addition, the fiery addition, and did what he did best, conduct.

  

* * *

 

 

Tom bowed to the audience, a small smirk stretching his lips. The applause was almost worth the long evening of meaningless chitchat that inevitably followed. He flashed a charming grin to some of the ladies. It was never a bad thing to have them on his side. Though, he pointedly ignored the Greengrass girl attempts to catch his attention.

 

The man of the evening, Lucius Malfoy stepped on the stage next to him. As though they were equals.

 

"Thank you Lord Voldemort for this once again, wonderful performance !" he drawled with a lazy smile. "Now, we can get to dinner."

 

The audience chuckled but they immediately started to move towards the dining room. His jaw clenched. Insufferable. Incapable of enjoying good music. They should _beg_ him for more.

 

The Malfoy patriarch clasped his hand on his shoulder. "Nice concert Tom, hope you'll have fun at dinner, they are a few other music personalities that I've invited, as I know them personally..."

 

And so he was dragged towards the dining room, already drowned in the superficial stupidity of British aristocracy.

  

* * *

 

 

"Good job Granger."

 

Hermione blushed and nodded her thanks to her three companions for the night. She was already exhausted. The rehearsal had been alright but the concert itself had put her under a lot of pressure as, well, she had had one rehearsal.

 

She carefully put her violin back in its holster.

 

"So are we suppose to mingle or get out as quickly as possible ?"

 

Zabini chuckled. "Mingle. They are often music celebrities and therefore opportunities."

 

"Great," she grunted with a smile, "so now we have to look forward to hours of drinking free champagne and eating free food ? While talking to celebrities and we get paid ?"

 

"That's pretty much it," grinned Nott.

 

She let out a small laugh. She did not think they were nice at first as they seemed pretty closed-off at the Opera, but they were actually kind of pleasant to hang out with. They showed her the cloakroom where she left her violin in the care of a valet.

 

Then, she entered the snake's den. There was no other way to describe it in her mind. All she could hear was fake laughs and sweet voices dripping with an obscene amount hypocrisy.

 

For a moment, she admired the room. She had never been in a manor, let alone one that luxurious. As she had been playing, she had not taken the time to properly take in the ostentatious luxury the manor was bathing in. The dining room was large. Much too large. The long table seemed to be stretching to infinity. The walls were lined up with mirrors, not helping to minimize the size of the room. A lot of deep green curtains were hanging between the windows overlooking the gardens. The colour matched Riddle's cufflinks.

 

She blinked. There he was. By the middle of the table, apparently engrossed in a conversation with a very disturbing looking woman. She frowned. The woman's hair seemed even more riotous than her own, the black curls spilling over her creamy-white shoulders and oh, her bosom was very much on display. Her black dress was not vulgar yet it was more revealing than Hermione felt comfortable with. She shook her head and turned at the call of her name to spot Nott and Zabini waving discreetly at her from the end of the table.

 

She smiled and moved towards them, the sound of her satin's dress on the polished floor joining the symphony of luxurious fabrics swishing around.

 

"So we're to sit there ?"

 

Nott shrugged. "Yeah, normally we're sent to eat with the servants when they finally begin to eat but I guess Malfoy was feeling generous."

 

The cellist pulled her chair for her, eliciting a giggle. She sat down, unable to take the grin of her face. She felt like an aristocrat for the first time in her life ! Well, even if she was at the end of the table. Her two fellow musicians sat down in front of her and began chatting about the Deatheaters upcoming concert. Well, she would probably not be there anymore.

 

"Pardon me miss ... ?"

 

Hermione turned to see a tall, elegant, woman, standing behind her. She scrambled to stand up.

 

"Oh it's miss Granger, honoured to meet you !" she beamed.

 

The woman, whom Hermione knew to be Madame Maxime, conductor at the Opéra de Paris since 1887, was very tall, probably even taller than Riddle. She leaned to barely graze her cheeks with her lips. Hermione almost jumped from the excitation. _Madame Maxime_ was doing _la bise_ to her !

 

"Enchantée miss Granger."

 

She pronounced her name with a heavy French accent, but Hermione could not find it in herself to care. Furthermore, who was she to correct this legendary conductor ?

 

"You played exquisitely well tonight _très chère_."

 

By then, Hermione was pretty sure the colour of her cheeks matched the colour of her dress.

 

"Well thank you, it means a lot coming from you Madame Maxime."

 

"I wanted to offer you a position at _l'Opéra de Paris_ ," she drawled, her eyes locked on Hermione as a tight-lip smile formed on her face, " as a _soliste_. I recognize _talent_ when I see it."

 

She inhaled sharply, eyes widening.

 

"That is... a lot to think about...", her eyes darted to her fellow musicians. "Do I have to answer now ?"

 

" _Et bien_ , it is a bit difficult... We've already started to rehearse. We would need you right now. We start the season with a _solo de violon_."

 

Her nose scrunched up. "I'm sorry I don't think I can answer right now, it's a big decision, I would like to think about if before accepting."

 

Madame Maxime seemed to weigh her up. Hermione tensed under the scrutiny. She was sure she was doing the right thing. Of course she would love nothing more than to be a soloist, but still, it was not a decision to be taken lightly. Moving to Paris was life changing and Hermione did not speak French. She could learn, she was a great learner, but it would be easier to become a soloist in London. Especially under Riddle's conduct. He was, after all, a prodigy.

 

" _Je vois_... I suppose I could let you a week to think about my offer. I'll come to see you at the _Opéra_. _À bientôt_."

 

Hermione nodded, beaming smile back in place. "Thank you so much, I'll have an answer by then. Have a good evening."

 

The woman tipped her head before slowly walking towards the other end of the table. Well, to be truthful, even if her speed was slow, her steps were so big she made it fast.

 

Hands lightly shaking, cheeks hurting, Hermione sat back down, eyes locked on the glass of champagne in front of her. She rarely indulged in drinking and even if she did, it was with Ron and Harry. But this night was special : she had played in the Deatheaters, she had been complimented by a famous conductor and, last but not least, she had been offered a soloist position in Paris.

 

"Why the bloody hell did I not outright say yes ?" she muttered before grabbing the flute and sending the sparkling liquid down her throat.

 

"Wow calm down there Granger !"

 

She looked at the two men chuckling in front of her and gave them an uneasy smile. She could not tell them about Madame Maxime's offer. She had the feeling that Riddle would not like it one bit. Although he had seemed to find her so insufferable that night he actually might. She did not know which one would be the worst.

 

"So," grinned Nott, "Madame Maxime complimented your playing ?"

 

She gave a little laugh and looked at her hands, getting slightly sweaty.

 

"Come on Theo, she's blushing of course she was complimented."

 

"I'm not blushing !" weakly protested Hermione.

 

She was. She could tell because her cheeks were burning, she had smiled too much and, she was blushing. Zabini shook his head.

 

"Right. More champagne ?"

 

"Yes please," she sighed reaching over the table for the flute he had been holding.

 

"Avery's not so far after all."

 

She almost spit out the luxurious tasting alcohol. "What ?"

 

"Don't listen to him, it's just that Avery drinks a lot."

 

She frowned. She did not know that. And she certainly did not want to be compared to him, even if she had done everything in her power to act nicer to him. She carefully set the half-empty flute back on the table, no more champagne for her that night.

 

She leaned back on her chair. She could already feel the nice effect of the alcohol on her system, namely the warmth spreading in her lower abdomen. She sighed. At least her judgement was not impaired, she had barely drunk anything.

 

She glanced at her two companions who were engrossed in a discussion with a young blond woman, exquisitely well-dressed, hair carefully pinned in place with a pearl and diamond incrusted jewel. Hermione internally scowled. She could feel several of her own curls brushing the nape of her neck.

 

She jumped as a hand brushed her shoulder. As the hand settled on the skin, she became increasingly aware of how naked it was. She turned to tell the rude person to piss off but was rendered speechless. First, the man was quite handsome, and he had the exact same hair colour as their employer. She gulped. She could not really tell someone from the family of their employer to piss off.

 

So she smiled. It probably looked fake, but as he had invaded her personal space, he did not deserve anything more.

 

"Good evening," he said lightly bowing. "I'm Abraxas Malfoy, the son of Lucius Malfoy."

 

She rose in order to shake his hand, not letting him kiss her knuckles. She was not a damsel in distress and well, she was not an aristocrat.

 

"Please to meet you, I'm Hermione Granger."

 

"I know," he smirked, "Tom has mentioned you."

 

Her eyes looked in the large dining room behind his shoulder, he was much shorter than Riddle, and found the man in question. She blinked. He was looking at her. His eyes seemed black from this distance. He was seemingly conversing with the same woman as before, the one with the displayed wild hair.

 

She looked back at Abraxas giving him a small smile. "That's nice..."

 

"Well, miss Granger, can I call you Hermione ? I have a certain _flair_ for talent. And you, dear Hermione, certainly are talented."

 

She frowned. "You can keep calling me miss Granger, and thank you."

 

He laughed good-naturedly. "I knew you'd have some punch ! Tom said you had a strong personality !"

 

She took a step back. "He said that ?" she asked disbelievingly.

 

"Why wouldn't he ?"

 

He took a step forward.

 

"Because he does not know me personally and therefore cannot have strong knowledge of my personality ?"

 

He shook his head, smile still locked in place. "Dear Hermione, I think everyone knows you have a strong personality. After all, you are a musician, dressed in red, at a concert."

 

She blushed. This had not been her choice. She almost openly scowled, not liking his kind of condescending tone, before remembering who he was. She had to get out of this discussion, as subtly as possible. Unfortunately, Hermione knew herself to lack subtlety, at least, when she needed it the most.

 

"I've forgotten something in my violin holster, will you excuse me for a second ?"

 

She began to drown herself in the anonymity a crow offered when she felt a hand gently grabbing her upper-arm. Still, she did not like it. It was against her naked skin.

 

"I'll take you, after all I have to be a good host, it's the first time you see the Manor."

 

Abraxas threw a charming grin at her but the hand on her upper-arm made her impervious to his boyish charm. She made a gesture of taking it off before turning to split the crowd, tempted to ignore the presence at her side.

 

They silently made their way through the guests until they were in the cloakroom. Hermione took her holster and opened it feeling more stupid than she had ever felt. What could there be to forget in a holster ? Her violin ? She made sure he could only see her back and pretended to fumble with her instrument. Stupid Hermione.

 

"You found what you were looking for ?"

 

She held back a sigh before closing her holster and turning back to the grinning platinum-blonde.

 

"Yes thank you."

 

She went for the exit when Abraxas closed the distance between them.

 

"Good," he breathed out before taking her face between his hands and kissing her.

 

Hermione gasped in outrage, having him believe that she liked his actions. Encouraged, he let his tongue wander in her mouth. Immediately, she brought her hands to his chest and pushed him back, panting.

 

"What the fuck ?"

 

He frowned, his lips were red and his cheeks pink.

 

"I'm answering to your signs ! You practically begged me to kiss you !" he scowled.

 

"What ? What fucking signs ?! No," she bitterly laughed throwing her hands in the air, "I don't even want to know."

 

He got closer to her, grin firmly back in place. "So, now that the surprise of finding out someone like me wants you, should we get back to work ?"

 

Hermione made a show of wiping her mouth with her hand, glaring at the platinum-blond man. Was he serious ? Surprised that someone like him, evil cockroach, wanted her ?

 

"No," she coldly answered, " get the fuck out before I scream."

 

He actually looked perplexed by her answer. Had he never been turned down before ? Did he do this to every woman which did not outright reject him ?

 

His face slowly morphed into one of cold contempt. His grey eyes hardened.

 

"You know I could ruin your career..."

 

By that point, Hermione was quite sure her cheeks were scarlet, burning fuelled by her anger. She knew this happened to other women. Still, she could not believe it was _happening to her_. Her lips began to tremble and her hands to shake.

 

"I'd rather have you ruin my career than feel your hand on my skin or your lips on my lips ever again," she whispered, not trusting herself not to yell.

 

She was heaving, and tears formed in her eyes threatening to spill on her scorching cheeks.

 

He solemnly nodded before leaving her alone in the cloakroom. As soon as the curtain hiding the room from the corridor fell down on him, she let out a sigh of relief. He had not forced himself on her. Of course, he was probably currently ruining her career, but she was physically okay.

 

At the thought of the bastard telling Riddle, Madame Maxime, that she was done for, she whimpered. She immediately brought her hands to her shaking lips, muffling the sobs that threatened to spill. Her career was over before truly starting. She would never get to be a soloist.

 

Just as she was going to let her tears fall, the curtain moved. She quickly straightened her spine and turned to pretend she was doing something with her holster, as ridiculous as this strategy was. She heard the stranger's steps on the plush carpet stop not far from her.

 

"Miss Granger ?"

 

Of course it had to be _him_. She took a deep breath, trying to keep the sobbing and panting under control. Then, she turned to face him.

 

He was closer than she had expected. She could almost not see his face because of the few lights of the room. But she was certain she could see his blazing eyes in the dark. And they were locked on her.

 

Hermione knew her eyes were probably red from unshed tears, and her cheeks red from shame and anger, but she straightened and stared back.

 

"Yes ?"

 

Fuck her voice was quavering more than she would have liked. Still, she held on.

 

"Thank you for replacing Avery tonight."

 

She nodded, adverting her eyes to the room. She knew it meant she was not taken definitely in the Deatheaters. With what had just happened with Abraxas, she could not really blame him. She was surprised when he slipped his arm in the crook of hers and got them out of the cloakroom, the heavy curtain settling on her naked shoulders before once again falling.

 

"I'd like to present you someone who admired your playing tonight."

 

She hoped it was not Madame Maxime, she did not need the drama. They entered the ballroom. Hermione tensed, feeling if not seeing Abraxas' presence. If Riddle noticed it, he did not say anything, she was grateful for that. They went around the room and got closer to the woman she had seen him talk too. She was cackling with a pale-haired woman, probably from the Malfoy's clan.

 

They stopped right before them, interrupting the cackle, was it a laugh ?, of the woman.

 

"Miss Granger, I present you Madame Lestrange."


	7. Chapter 7

"Pleasure to meet you."

 

The woman, Lestrange, extended her cheek towards Hermione and the violinist took the clue and brought her own cheek to parallel the woman's. They drew back eyes finally meeting. Hermione almost quivered under the scrutiny of the blazing black eyes. Tom's were greyer. She never drowned in them. They were like a cold barrier separating her from him. Lestrange's eyes were quite different. She felt as though drenched in a pit of black mud, soot running down her cheeks with her tears. She blinked.

 

"You are one delightful little bird darling !" cooed Lestrange red lips spreading across her pale alabaster skin.

 

Hermione frowned. She hated condescending nicknames such as darling, sweetheart and so on.

 

"Bella _, the little bird_ prefers to be called miss Granger," laughed Riddle good-naturedly although she noticed his eyes were not affected by his seemingly genuine smile.

 

Her jaw hardened. _The little bird_. She already loathed the woman and the way Riddle acted around her. 'Bella' erupted in laughter, a high-pitch, empty and yet merry laugh.

 

"Yes she seems like the type of little bird who likes to hear her own name !"

 

Hermione reddened, a wave of sudden anger almost overwhelming her. The nickname stuck and they spoke of her as though she was not even there ! And she was not a narcissist ! Even though she was quite proud of her work, it was because she was talented and deserved to be proud.

 

"I don't, I just hate generic nicknames," she scowled.

 

Lestrange abruptly stopped cackling and her eyes roamed over Hermione's form, as though seeing her for the first time. Her lips turned back into a snarl.

 

"Don't worry, it won't last, you're only here for one concert aren't you ?"

 

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "I assure you I-"

 

"Ladies, do not make a scene please," chuckled Riddle.

 

She threw him a deadly look and was met by a cool silver gaze. His eyes were darker when he conducted. He raised one of his eyebrow as though to chide her for her childish behaviour. She petulantly thought that he was the one responsible for the small row. Why had he brought her to meet this awful woman ?

 

"I wanted to present you Miss Lestrange because she used to be a famous cantatrice at the Opera," he said as if he had read her thoughts in her eyes, "she might sing an air tonight and as there's no pianist, you or Nott might be required to accompany her."

 

Of course, she was after all only a musician, only an accompaniment. Lestrange's huge and disturbing smile was back in place only irking Hermione further. Riddle did not bother looking at her.

 

"Miss Lestrange might prefer Nott," she spat ignoring the woman.

 

"Miss Lestrange," drawled Riddle, "will choose herself."

 

She gave him a pleading look but his stare remained stoic. Hermione snarled and turned. She could not bear the presence of the woman who was smiling winningly anymore. She felt humiliated by the way Riddle had treated her. She split the crowd pretending not to hear his subtle call back. She was not a dog he could simply order around. She swore she could feel the weigh of his look on her back long after she had disappeared in the crowd.

 

She was tempted to go and seek out Madame Maxime and accept her offer just to piss off the conductor. But she knew it was not a good idea. She had to think on it.

 

As she neared the end of the table where Zabini and Nott were engrossed in a debate, she wondered if someone, apart from the Deatheaters and Riddle and that was assuming they would, would notice if she went straight home. She looked around. No one was paying her any attention. Why would they ? She could go unnoticed. She could escape Lestrange. Indeed, if she chose her, she would probably humiliate her publicly. If she did not, Hermione's ego would not be unscathed.

 

Slowly she made her way to the other end of the room, that bloody dining room was way too large, and pushed the carved doors. The corridor was mostly empty except for a few servants talking. She nodded politely and headed towards what she believed was the main entrance. They had entered through the back so she was not that sure about it. The corridor took several turns and with each one she felt herself growing increasingly frustrated. Deciding to break the vicious circle she left the main artery of the house and took one of the veins, the green carpet was replaced with a black one, just as plush, muffling the sound of her steps.

 

After even more turns, she began to doubt her plan. The corridors were becoming smaller and smaller and were less lit. Finally, she stopped and brought a hand to her mouth. She had forgotten her violin.

 

"Bloody hell," she muttered leaning on the wall.

 

She looked at the small corridor, to her left, then to her right. She sighed. She was lost. Suddenly, she thought she saw a shadow move on the opposite wall. Her spine straightened. And then memories of Abraxas Malfoy kissing her came tumbling back. She could still hear his threats and feel his hands on her naked shoulders. She shivered. What if it was him ? He probably knew the layout of the house by heart.

 

She decided to not retrace her steps as he could be behind her. She knew her fear to be irrational but she could not help the fastening of her heart beat. As she took another turn, the floorboard creaked. She did not think.

 

She ran.

 

Well, at least she tried. Her small heels threatened to make her fall with each step she took on the plush black carpet. But still, adrenalin began to fuel her movements. She could feel her muscles tensing and hear her breath quickening.

 

She took turn after turn, no longer trying to mentally map the too-huge-for-its-own-good house. She simply ran.

 

She felt like she was going in circles, which did nothing to alleviate her fear of running on Abraxas. Then she took a turn and heard it.

 

"Granger !"

 

Her name yelled in the distance. Her eyes widened. Could it be anyone but him ? She ran faster not anymore caring if her ankle snapped. Suddenly she collided with a small table, hidden behind yet another turn, and fell with a yelp. She heard the vase that was on the table crashing down and winced. Well done Hermione.

 

Quickly, she did a mental check-up. Nothing broken, only a small pain in her knees and hands. She sighed in relief before almost immediately tensing again.

 

Footsteps could be heard coming from the maze of corridors. She turned on her back, still sprawled on the ground, panting, eyes wide with fear. When the person chasing her finally came into view she frowned. The perfect skin and handsome looks could not be mistaken.

 

"Riddle ?" she breathed out.

 

* * *

 

Riddle took one last turn, in the direction of something crashing when he finally saw her. Although he did not expect to find her sprawled on the ground, bathed in a puddle of bloody silk. And he did not expect half of her hair to have escaped from the confines of her hairdo. He might not have chased after her had that been the case. She looked... _electrifying_.

 

"Lestrange wants you to accompany her," he said coldly.

 

His eyes fell to her chest, rising with each breath, then rose to her lips, slightly parted, as red as her vermilion clothes. The fire that had burned her dress red threatened to engulf him. The image of her in trousers came back to his mind. His lips thinned.

 

Tom Riddle knew lust. He manipulated it, it had submitted to him, it was a _tool_. This sudden change of stands was frustratingly maddening.

 

"Bloody fuck..."

 

He frowned. He had not yet noticed her vulgarity. He did not move to help her as she slowly stood up. She noticed.

 

"Don't help me !"

 

"Well," he spat back, "the little bird is so independent, I would not dare try to jeopardize that."

 

She narrowed her eyes at him as she soothed her hands down her skirt. He swore he could see fire dancing in the brown of the pupil, even though there was very few lighting this deep in the manor. As he let himself look at her enticing hair once more, he felt as though he was on the edge of something, something truly dangerous, because it was unlike him.

 

For the first time, air had a weight and it compressed him.

 

"Why," she tried to slow her breath to no avail, "why did you chase after me ? Why, why not Nott ?"

 

Because her curls had been too bloody tantalizing not to chase after them.

 

"Do you think I answer to you ?"

 

She shook her head not bothering to hide her exasperation. He could smell the soap she had probably used to wash her hair. Her perfume was nice although he could smell a hint of sweat. The slightly acid fragrant was not unpleasant.

 

"What do you want with me ?" she asked vehemently sending him an aggravated glare.

 

He took a step towards her and reached out. The tip of his fingers traced the golden arabesques framing her delicate, no, nothing about her was remotely delicate, mien. He noticed her breath hitch. He almost smirked. So he also did something to her. He would have hated to be the only one affected by whatever he was feeling was.

 

But he could not admit to be affected by her. Not when he wanted to ruin her and yet perfect her. He hated to be split. So, as always, he chose music.

 

"I want to know, why do you play ?" he whispered once more looking at her eyes.

 

She looked taken aback, breath still uneven. He took a step closer. She did not step back. She furrowed her brows. He could almost see the cogs turning in her brain. After a moment she looked at him determined, lips set in a straight red line.

 

"To quench a thirst, because I crave sound."

 

Her voice, deeper than most women he knew, was like gasoline poured in his veins. He stepped closer transfixed, beckoning her to say more with a small nod.

 

"I am starving for harmony and the breaking, the shattering of said harmony, I play raw emotions and yet I rationalize them."

 

He had seen well, she was talented and yet almost too proud. But she liked music partly for the same reasons he did. His hand fell from her curls to her scalding cheek. She shivered under his touch but did not blink.

 

"I am constantly on the brink of something and music allows me to fall a little more into the chasm, and it is perilous yet so, so tantalizing."

 

The speech was probably rehearsed but the passion aflame in her eyes could not be faked. It alit a violent starving in him. He thought that his eyes probably mirrored her, the passion for music turning into something different, just as unforgiving, just as savage. Then, she took a step closer making something coil in his stomach.

 

Tom pushed her against the wall, caging her between his arms. She was still panting, and glared at him, although it was not that much of a glare, it was molten copper and he was drowning in its scorching heat. He could feel his own breath quickening. But what he really focused on was their closeness and the fact that he could feel how warm her skin was, as though the heat went through the material of her dress to soak him. He could have bathed in her warmth for hours.

 

She looked exquisite in her red dress, struggling to slow her breath, eyes burning holes in his. But the heat that came off her body coated him in her scent and just the feverish and incensed _feeling of her_. She did not look delicate. She looked savage. She looked sinful.

 

He took his hand of her cheek to put it next to her head on the wall. His eyes did not left hers. They could not.

 

Slowly, he let his head fall a little. She was much smaller than him but she did not seem to be deterred by the face as she continued to stare at him determinedly. He settled his eyes on her pink parted lips. He hoped his stare burned her as hers had burned him. He longed to bite the tender flesh, to elicit a succulent moan from her; he craved to be the one to push her into the chasm she feared so.

 

"Hermione..."

 

His whisper did not have the effect he intended it to have or the effect it usually had. Immediately her spine straightened and her scorching gaze turned into a cold glare. She nimbly slipped under his arm and went straight for the corridor.

 

Tom's eyes followed her, dumbstruck. He was not used to women doing that. Usually it was the contrary.

 

Just before turning and escaping his gaze, Hermione, when had she become Hermione ?, gave him a harsh look.

 

"Thank you for the opportunity you gave me tonight, sir."

 

And just like that she disappeared in the Malfoy's Manor maze, leaving a blazing trail. 

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione walked in the lively city of London. The streets were crowded with people enjoying the nightlife after a hard day of work. She looked out of place in her good-quality dress. But she did not care. She needed to find Harry and Ron in order to calm down.

 

Her left cheek was making her brain believe that it missed _his_ hand. She hated the fact that she could actually feel his skin's absence. She shivered as she remembered the way he had looked. Perfect as always except for the small black lock that had fallen on his forehead. It was as black as his eyes had been, the grey drowning in the charcoal that usually simply circled it. She could feel it all, his eyes, his hand, her body remembered and puzzlingly ached for their touches.

 

Finally she arrived in front of her best friends' favourite pub. She pushed the door and slipped inside. The air was heavy, the smell of beer pungent. At least it made it more difficult to remember his scent, wood, soap and something she could not pinpoint. She shook her head. She was not here to daydream about her conductor's smell. Her nose scrunched up as she looked for her friends in the buzzing crowd.

 

At last she found them, near one of the windows. She split the crowd and, unlike at the Malfoy Manor, she nudged people to do so. When she arrived in front of their small table the exhaustion of the whole evening settled on her shoulders.

 

" 'Mione !"

 

She gave a tired smile to the two beaming men and sat next to Harry facing the redhead and his fiancée. Harry immediately settled his arms over her strained shoulders, drenching her in his heat and the smell of his sweat.

 

"You stink Harry," she laughed half-heartedly fighting his embrace.

 

"You're one to talk, reeking of perfume !"

 

She blushed. Parvati had lent her a few drops of her perfume, it was expensive and she rarely used it. She would have to thank the other girl.

 

"I had a concert tonight."

 

"Wow, miss big shot !"

 

She teasingly stuck her tongue out eliciting a chuckle from the baker.

 

"What, you are !"

 

"Won-won's right Hermione, you're sure to be a successful musician !"

 

"Thanks Lavender," blushed Hermione slightly uncomfortable.

 

The girl was nice and Hermione had grown to like her but she always felt uneasy around her, as she had previously been in a relationship with Ron. Still they had broken up for the best and she could only admit that Lavender was a much better match than she had ever been.

 

"What was the concert ?"

 

She turned to her raven-haired friend who was watching her with interest. "Well, it was a private concert for an obscenely rich family."

 

"And you left so early ?" laughed Ron. "Fred told me that he once catered for rich people and they started eating at _one bloody a.m._ !"

 

The violinist giggled. "Seems about right."

 

"Well how did it go ?"

 

"Fine ! Fine..."

 

"You don't sound convinced," pointed out Lavender giving her a meaningful look.

 

She sighed. She was a shitty liar. Best to get it over with as soon as possible.

 

"I got a job offer."

 

"Fuck that's great !"

 

"That's amazing !"

 

"Never doubted you !"

 

She frowned and pushed away the hands encouragingly patting her.

 

"The problem is... It's in Paris."

 

The silence that settled over the table was heavy, contrasting with the explosion of bumbling joy that had just taken place. Feeling her unease growing, Hermione took a swig out of Harry's beer, not stopping to reflect on the action, she had eaten nothing since lunch.

 

"Well," carefully began Harry, "what do you plan to do ?"

 

She grunted and glanced at the pub's customers already feeling the alcohol dripping in her veins, which were already aflame thanks to a bloody handsome conductor. The fact was, she did not know. It was not planned and Hermione liked to plan things out. And yet it was not common to get such offers at such a young age and with so little real experience. Moreover, could she give up the job Riddle had offered her ? He was a prodigy after all.

 

"I don't know," she mumbled frustrated.

 

"You should take it."

 

They all turned to Lavender who was looking at her with a determined look.

 

"It sounds like a once in a lifetime opportunity !"

 

"It is..."

 

"Then take it. You're not a coward and I'm pretty sure you can do it, you're independent and bloody fierce !"

 

"She's right 'Mione," smiled Harry, "sure, we'll miss each other but you'd be miserable knowing you didn't take it."

 

Her lips tightened. She knew they were right and yet... She did not feel like leaving.

 

"What about your conductor, isn't he gonna be hella pissed ?"

 

Heat crept up her neck. She could almost feel the imprints of his hands on her cheeks. She frowned and looked elsewhere.

 

"Sure, but who cares right ?"

 

"Isn't he a prodigy or some shit ?"

 

"Yeah he is."

 

"You better tell him soon then."

 

She nodded glaring a hole into the wood of the table. She did not want to talk or to even think about Riddle right now. She heard creaking and glanced up. Lavender was standing and giving Ron a kind smile. Hermione was surprised that she did not feel an ounce of jealousy. She was... indifferent.

 

"Well," the blonde smiled, "I'd love to talk more about that but we have to go, Ron has to wake up early tomorrow."

 

The redhead grunted good-naturedly. "Like always..."

 

"Good night."

 

They waved them goodbye as they left the overcrowded pub.

 

"Are you sure that's all you wanted to tell us ?"

 

"Yes Harry, that was all."

 

She snuggled closer to him, the acid smell of sweat a scent she was used to. She could not tell him about the fact that she had just lusted over her conductor. It was unprofessional and unlike her. So she decided to distract him.

 

"How's it going with Ginny ?"

 

He shrugged. She knew he was touchy about it.

 

"Molly is still pestering us about wedding... But neither of us really wants it so..."

 

"Yeah that sucks."

 

He snorted and gave her a fond look. "It does. But, on a bright note, Seamus and Dean have invited me to a dinner party where they said there would be other people like... like us."

 

She smiled. "That's great !"

 

He grinned but she noticed he remained tense.

 

"You know we're here to support you no matter what don't you ?" she whispered, fiercely hugging him.

 

"Yeah... I know 'Mione," he chuckled.

 

She noticed the emptiness of his chuckle but she did not remark on it. There was no need to. They just knew each other too well.

 

"You know I might also get a promotion ?"

 

Hermione straightened, beaming. "Really ?"

 

"You might have to call me lifestyle editor soon," he smirked merrily.

 

"Well, for now it's still reporter, Potter !"

 

He laughed more at ease eliciting a satisfied smile from her. She squeezed his arm affectionately.

 

"I have to go I'm already tired enough without giving a private concert as it is."

 

"I'll go with you I don't want you to walk alone so late."

 

"Okay," she smiled softly, knowing Harry only wanted to protect her.

 

They stood up and snaked in and out of the crowd, Hermione doing figures worthy of a gymnast to avoid getting any beer on Parvati's dress. Finally they were out of the pub in the just as crowded street but with more fresh air. She grimaced as she looked at the sky hidden by the black smog. Fresh air might not have been the right expression.

 

"Did you pay ?"

 

"Yeah we paid ordering."

 

She nodded and followed him in the street. She took his hand. To an observer, they might have seemed to be a couple, but for the two of them, handholding was only a way to comfort the other, like a sibling would.

 

* * *

 

 

Tom stared at the end of the corridor where she had disappeared. His shock was quickly being overrun by anger. Against himself. He could feel his pulse still humming as though she was still nearby. But she was not. His jaw twitched. She had left him throbbing with need and yearning. He struggled to get a hold of the fire that had started consuming, engulfing, him as he had gotten closer to her.

 

Gritting his teeth, he began to make his way back to the party downstairs. He felt slightly humiliated that she had rejected _him_. He would never force himself on a woman but he had never been rejected either. He felt as though his entire body was pulsating in harmony with his heartbeat.

 

He forced himself to stop thinking about her and to focus on pictures that would drown this ardour. His Deatheaters, women he had slept with, the Malfoys, basically any other human being, death. That did the trick.

 

He shivered and his gaze hardened. He could now hear the sound of superficial laughter. He was nearing the heart of the party. At last the large doors giving on the dining room came into view, framed by two valets wearing the livery of Malfoy's servants. They opened the door for him and, body no longer thrumming with an unknown force, like the chord of a violin on the edge of breaking, he entered the dining room.

 

Almost immediately, Bellatrix zoomed in on him and gave him one of her best venom-dripping smile.

 

"Tommy, I'd like to sing something after dinner accompanied by Theodore. Your, _little bird_ ," she spat, "I don't know how you could think her _worthy_ of accompanying _me_ !"

 

He tilted his head and stared at her. He had never noticed how sickly pale she was.

 

"The girl reeks of poverty and poor manners !" she continued, "and how she talked to _me_ !"

 

The curls were tighter and yet oddly, they were not enticing at all. They did not have the same passionate energy. They were like snakes poised for attack. They were not wild, electrified locks, craving freedom.

 

"As if she deserved to do anything more than crawl at my feet and lick the mud of my boots," scoffed Lestrange.

 

"Yes Bella," sighed Tom, "Nott will accompany you."

 

Hermione was gone anyway so it was probably for the best.

 

"He better ! And Tommy," she said, not noticing how he had once again cringed upon hearing the horrid surname, "I don't want to ever see your _little bird_ anymore."

 

He almost sent her packing when he remembered who she was. She was rich and well, she was an acquaintance, even if she fancied herself to be much more. He would get her to remember he did not take orders from anyone another way.

 

He nodded and she left swiftly, sitting in her place at the table.

 

_Little bird_. He liked the nickname. After all, when she was playing her violin, was she not a bird playing its song ? But the nickname was only an addition to what he had really liked in Bellatrix's speech. No, not liked, he had loved it. She had said it was _his_ little bird. And, in a way, she really was. _He_ had recruited her. _He_ had given her this wonderful opportunity. Really it was a surprise she was not more grateful.

 

She should have begged him to feel the way he did for her. To want to take her curls, fist them and kiss them. To want to drown in her scent, to tear her skin and graze her throat as she would moan in abandon.

 

As the slow pulsing of his veins came back he sat down at the table between other famous musicians or conductors. He almost smiled, thinking about their inferiority. He had a little bird, so talented, between his hands. He could crush them. Hell, he could crush her too.

 

He ignored his neighbours' attempts to draw him into their conversation. It was as dull as them.

 

He would have to proceed carefully. His little bird's ego should not be stroked too much. She had to submit her talent to him, so that he could harvest it. He smirked. He was the _only one_ who could perfect her and make her the best violinist. He was sure of that.

 

Oh how he would _adore_ her submission. She would beg him to train her to better her playing.

 

As the throbbing resumed, he realized he could not wait to see his plan accomplished. He wanted her right now. But of course, he had to dive back into the hypocrite and fake world of others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I took a bit more time writing it but I mean... I feel like it was worth it. Don't hesitate to review, criticism is only beneficial !
> 
> And if you have more general questions, I have a Tumblr : ffourultraviolence


	8. Chapter 8

He leaned on the doorframe, watching her with rapture.

 

 _His little bird_.

 

She was facing the large windows of his room, bathed in the sunlight. It was warming her already warm skin, highlighting its tan. Her longs legs were bent, their shape only perceptible through the thin satin sheets. He stared at her tantalizing golden arms with yearning. They circled her legs, curving her back in the most sensuous way. He wanted to lick her spine, to taste her perfectly unscarred skin, to mark his territory by letting his fingers inking the gold, tainting it purple, blue and green. It would be like flowers marring her skin, jewels worthy only of queens and empresses.

 

She turned to look at him looking at her. Her eyes mirrored his carnal ones. Her wild hair framed her face, black, brown and gold interlacing luminously. Her lips, delicate, thrilling, fervid, _corrupt with sin_ , parted. She straightened her spine lasciviously not breaking eye contact.

 

But what really threw Tom into the chasm of lust were her curls. Her damn, blazing, curls which were wildly luring him back to her. He was voracious for them. He wanted to grab them in his fist, to crush them, to crush _her_ in pleasure. He craved _her_.

  

* * *

 

 

Hermione's face was covered in sweat. She tried to dry her skin with her hand but only succeeded in coating her hand with the acid sweat. She had been playing for two hours in her small room and the sun dripping from the window only accentuated the heat of July.

 

She sighed and turned the page of her music sheets. It was useless, she already knew it by heart. Her eyes skimmed over the notes without seeing them. She fingered her violin, fidgeting. She could feel hands on her cheeks. She shook her head.

 

She settled the violin on her shoulder and brought her bow closer. Slowly she began the descent until the chords touched. She closed her eyes and pianissimo, she started to caress the chords.

 

The harmonious notes rose from the instrument. Music began to fill the room, once more. She did not have to look at the music sheets. She did not need the orchestra to back her up. She knew Tchaikovsky like the lines of her own hand, sinuously making arabesques on her palm. The languor of the music sent her tumbling into her own memories of the previous night.

 

The music skimmed her like she wished _he_ had.

 

She drowned in the sound of her own making. It was powerful and made her throbbing with an unknown force. She was abruptly overwhelmed by a turmoil that came with a particularly high-pitched note. She felt like she was foundering in an ocean of tumultuous sound. She could not breathe. She frowned and continued to play, play the piece perfectly, as though it had been written solely to be played by her. She breathed out. Her arm was beginning to hurt her.

 

A crashing wave of pure ferocious, unbending and yet sinfully thrilling, disharmony crashed upon her. She smiled. She recognized the feeling from the night before. She was on the edge of the precipice and all too ready to fall in it with open arms.

 

Suddenly the sound of someone knocking on her door had her stop her playing. Slowly, she opened her eyes and blinked when faced with the harsh light of the sun. The silence was deafening. She set her violin carefully on her bed before opening the door.

 

Parvati glared at her.

 

"It's 8 a.m."

 

"8 and a half," smiled Hermione luminously.

 

The girl snorted and glanced at her room. Her nose scrunched up. She did not like how messy Hermione's room was. She turned back to the woman in question.

 

"I'm trying to get some sleep, I had a night shift."

 

She nodded. "Alright I'll stop, anyway I wanted to go and see Ron. Do you want me to bring you something to eat from the bakery ?"

 

Parvati narrowed her eyes. "Did you do something to my dress ?"

 

"No ! I'm just nice."

 

"It doesn't become you."

 

She made to leave but quickly turned back to the bushy-haired girl. "I'd like a mince pie and some flapjacks."

 

Hermione chuckled and closed her door. Parvati had a weak spot for pastries or rather food in general. She went back to her violin that she put away in its case. She patted her hands on her skirt to dry them. Thankfully, the fabric was black. She took her small tin basin filled to the brim with cold water and put it on her small table. Diving her hands into the water, she washed her face, neck and hands with the small cake of soap she had left. She took linen on the side and dried herself before taking off her nightshirt and passing on a new one. She tucked it into her clean skirt, she had put it on before starting to play. Without putting much effort into it, she wrangled her hair into a more or less tight bun.

 

Finally, she was as ready as she would ever be. She grabbed her small leather cross-body bag, a gift of her late father, and put her key and a bit of money into it. She gave one last look to her room. She would have to tidy it soon. She shrugged, not today.

 

Swiftly, she hurtled down the stairs sending hellos to other awaken residents complaining about her music.

 

"Ms Granger !"

 

She sighed and turned to look at the caretaker who was glaring at her. She put on a sweet smile on her lips.

 

"Yes Mr Filch ?"

 

"Ye' must pay rent today ! An' stop doing whatever it's ye' do up there ! Ye' woke up me cat !"

 

She clenched her teeth. Of course. How could she forget she constantly needed to pay for things with money she did not have. Thankfully as today they had no rehearsal, she could go work at Ollivander's shop and try to earn some money. Still, she would need an advance from the Opera. She would get it before the small SPUW protest. As she walked determinedly in the busy streets of the morning London, she thought about Madame Maxime's proposition. It seemed more appealing every minute. But still, Riddle was so talented. However, yesterday's events had shed a whole new light on him. She could feel it burning her insides.

 

She once again shook her head and forced herself to focus on her steps. When she arrived at the Weasleys' bakery, she had only though about him thrice more.

 

She pushed the glass door and instantly a smiled bloomed on her pink lips and all inappropriate thoughts about her conductor vanished. Fred and George were behind the counter, dealing with a customer, and she could see Ron in the tiny opening of the kitchen. He was red and sweating profusely, facing the blazing ovens.

 

"What do we have here George !"

 

She brought her focus back to the twins who had dealt with the customer. She was now their only one. They grinned mischievously, knowing they could tease her with little to no consequences. She liked bantering playfully with them. They were quite serious when they wanted to but she also liked their careless attitude.

 

"Well," said George exaggerating his pointed look to his twin, "I think it's the best violinist in all London !"

 

"Really ?"

 

Fred's mouth was shaped in a perfect o and Hermione could not help but laugh softly.

 

"What's the mighty musician, no artist !, doing in our modest and poor bakery George ?"

 

"It's all charity work Fred ! Her presence pays us !"

 

"Indeed it must gentlemen ! After all, it's not everyday that I grace a shop with my look let alone with my presence !"

 

Fred smirked. "We know, 'Mione," he sighed dramatically, "you're deserting us !"

 

"Abandoning us !"

 

"Betraying us !"

 

She burst into a joyful laughter, they always managed to get it out of her.

 

"Oi ! They bothering you ?"

 

She glanced at Ronald who had stepped into the shop through her tears of laughter. "No, they never do."

 

"Yeah _Won-Won_ , 'Mione likes us, she can fight for herself !"

 

"You're damn right George !"

 

"I know Fred, you too !"

 

She cleared her throat and gave them a pointed look. She liked their banter, but she also had other things to do. Today SPUW had a protest planned in McGonagall's rehearsal. She had to get back to her room before leaving for the orchestra in order to get into her trousers. And she had to buy Parvati's forgiveness with food.

 

"I'd like a mince pie, scones, and three flapjacks."

 

"Yes my Lady," snickered Fred bowing.

 

George chuckled but began to prepare her order. As he did, she took a look around the shop. It was still as clean as the last time she had been in it, the glass case sparkling and displaying colourful and mouth-watering pies, tarts, and other delicacies. They were talented. And the excellent state of the shop, all coloured in a creamy beige, showed they knew how to handle business too.

 

"How's the business ?"

 

Fred shrugged and crossed his arms. "It's going well. We have more and more orders for catering so that's good. We'll soon need another employee if you were thinking about taking yet another job."

 

Petulantly she stuck her tongue out. "I only have two jobs !"

 

"That's one too many, you have circles under your eyes."

 

She brought the tip of her fingers to the aforementioned zone. They were right. She could feel the skin mollified and hurt by her lack of sleep.

 

"I need them," she shrugged.

 

"You might not anymore."

 

She frowned. Had they found a billion pounds during the night ?

 

"Ron told us about the offer you got, probably pays well," smiled George as he put the pastries in a carefully crafted paper box.

 

She blushed. She had not yet made her decision, she did not feel like talking about it.

 

"We think you should take it."

 

"Yeah," she sighed, "I'm not sure yet."

 

"Tough decision."

 

George leaned over the glass counter to give her the small box. "It's on us," he winked, "see it as a congratulations present, if only for the offer !"

 

Hermione could not help but give both of them a fond smile. She loved the Weasleys. They were the family she had been deprived of.

 

"Thank you so much !"

 

"No need," snickered Fred, "as we said before, your presence is enough for us !"

 

She laughed one last time before waving them goodbye and leaving the small shop. As soon as she had left the quiet and calming scenery of the bakery however, her face turned to steel, for now, she had to go stand up for other women thanks to SPUW.

 

* * *

 

 

She moaned and Tom almost lost his mind. He did not think pleasuring a woman could be so rewarding and yet, so tantalizing. His little bird sung in the most enthralling way.

 

A knocking sound caught Hermione's attention, interrupting the delicious sounds she had been making. He turned towards the door, scowling. Who dared interrupt him ? The sound was growing louder and louder, as though slowly drilling through thick wadding.

 

"Mr Riddle !"

 

Tom abruptly stood up from his bed. When he turned, _she_ had disappeared. He gritted his teeth. It had only been a dream. Muttering, he took yesterday's shirt and trousers and quickly put them on as the knocking continued.

 

He opened the door to his bedroom and faced the small toadish woman. He forced himself not to show the disgust her overly flowery perfume awoke in him. She was drowning in a sea of pink wool. It was positively hideous.

 

"Yes, Ms Umbridge ?"

 

The creature's waxy skin was overcome with a blush. Tom felt bile rise from his stomach.

 

"One of your musicians is asking for an advance on her salary. As you know we only pay musician next Wednesday so in about eight days. What should I do ?"

 

Did she think he was a bloody accountant ? He resisted the urge to sigh but could not help but scowl. There was after all only so much contempt he could hide. He was not a superman.

 

"Who was it ?"

 

Probably Avery with how much he was drinking. Or Longbottom, he seemed like the type to _forget_ he did not have enough money to pay for things. Bloody fools interrupting his dream.

 

"A certain Ms Granger sir, I don't know if you remember her she came here last night, quite rude of her if you ask me but -"

 

Tom blanched abruptly. Of course it had to be _her_. She had been much less irksome in his fantasy.

 

"Yes," he cut coldly, "I do."

 

"So ?"

 

"Send her to see me tomorrow and tell her that only then will I pay her for yesterday's concert."

 

It was a good plan. That way, he could let the heat from yesterday and that night die down. Hopefully forever, he did not need to lust, that much was beneath him, for one of his musicians nonetheless !

 

"Sir !"

 

That time, he did not refrain from letting out a growl. Of course his little bird would want to see it for herself. What a fucking mistake he had done when he had accepted her in his orchestra.

 

As he saw Umbridge's pinched lips he realized he could get out of here without having to see her, and therefore avoid reviving much too recent memories. She could not enter his apartments to his bedroom like Umbridge had done. She would wait outside.

 

He smirked. If she thought he would move to see to her small money problems, she was to learn she was sorely mistaken. After all, he was the conductor. She was mere violinist, talented, yes, but definitely under him. In the hierarchy of the Opera at least.

 

"I'll be in my room," he smiled to Umbridge.

 

The insufferable woman gave him a conniving smile, as though they were in the same state of mind. When he closed the door, he shivered. What a terrible idea.

 

As he advanced in the room, he noticed that his shirt smelled. His nose scrunched up. He hated to be so common so as to smell. He needed to wash and to change. Quickly he took his shirt off and made to go into his small bathroom when the door of his bedroom opened with a loud bang.

 

Dumbstruck, he looked at the nuisance that had dared disturb his privacy. She did not surprise him. But he was astonished by the rapidity with which his body answered to her presence. She was heaving and glaring at him. And of course, because it had become a bloody habit of hers apparently, half of her hair was in the air, as though electrified by her sheer will.

 

"I need my money," she panted, eyes flashing, "now. Not tomorrow."

 

He blinked. Of course, she was there for her money, not for him. Not yet for him.

 

He saw the exact moment when she noticed his torso was bare. Her eyes widened and quickly she looked at the bed, then, a blush crept up her face and she began to stare at the window. He smirked. So maybe she was there for him.

 

"I don't have your money on me right now as you've well seen."

 

Tom was delighted to see the blush deepen and now spread to her slightly exposed collarbone. She cleared her throat, deliberately still focused on the window.

 

"I have."

 

Her voice was slightly wobbling. He loved the sound of it. Well, he loved it less than the moans she had made in his dream. The throbbing resumed. Would he love her real moans more than he loved music ? He did not dismiss the possibility altogether.

 

"Ms Granger," hissed Umbridge, "this is not proper at all ! You'll be fired !"

 

He could barely see the top of the toadish woman's head up Hermione's shoulder. _His_ little bird scowled and turned towards Umbridge.

 

"You can't fire me," she spat, "you're no one."

 

The throbbing was slowly morphing into hunger. He heard a gasp of outrage from the insufferable woman. It was like the best concerto to his ears.

 

"Leave us."

 

"But, sir ?"

 

"I said," he drawled not bothering to look at the woman, "leave us. I'm sure you're needed elsewhere seeing how essential you're to the good functioning of this Opera."

 

The toad blushed furiously and left with a sharp nod and one last glare to Hermione. The latter turned back to him, face still contorted in righteous anger.

 

"I need the money from the concert."

 

"Alright," he said with a sly smile, "but I can't give it to you this instant, as I said, I don't have it with me."

 

"I'll be in the Opera House 'til the end of McGonagall's rehearsal. I'll wait."

 

She followed the path Umbridge had taken only a moment ago. He blinked. She was wearing trousers, _again_. Tom was quite sure he was one of the most self-controlled men in England, no, in the world. But even him, could not stay indifferent to Hermione Granger wearing trousers.

 

Bloody hell, how he hated to be a man with physiological responses.

  

* * *

 

 

"Granger !"

 

Hermione spun around, grin firmly fixed on her pinkish lips. Pansy Parkinson was determinedly walking towards her, a smirk of her own adorning her face. She was also wearing trousers.

 

"Ah you're late ! McGonagall started ten minutes ago !"

 

She blew a raspberry.

 

"I'm not late, she's just early."

 

"What are you doing in this part of the Opera House ?" frowned Pansy putting authoritatively her hands on her hips.

 

"I had to talk with Riddle."

 

"Ah, alright. Well, let's go !"

 

They began to walk in order to get to the room where McGonagall's orchestra rehearsed. Hermione felt a wave of nostalgia engulf her. It had been a long time since she had last set foot in this aisle of the Opera. Well, to be truthful, it had been since the end of May but still, with all that had happened, she felt that it counted as a long time.

 

"So, ready for the summer ball ?"

 

Hermione frowned. She had completely forgot about that. She shook her head.

 

"Yeah sure, what is there to be ready for ?"

 

Parkinson chuckled. "Wow, so innocent ! That's when alliances form."

 

"Alliances ?" scowled Hermione, "this is an orchestra not the bloody House of Commons ?"

 

Pansy sighed. "It's not political but still, if you make the wrong ones, you're usually not in the orchestra the year after..."

 

"What ?"

 

"Yeah," she shrugged, "I'm quite good at it, I've been in Riddle's orchestra for six years !"

 

"I suppose I should listen to you, you've got more experience..."

 

"Don't imply that I'm old, I'm only twenty-five."

 

"And yet unmarried, spinster."

 

"Since when does a woman need marriage ?" winked Pansy.

 

"She doesn't."

 

They both chuckled.

 

"Well you can be my ally ?" asked Hermione after a moment of silence.

 

"We'll see at the summer ball Granger."

 

"When is it ?"

 

"Friday night."

 

"Bloody fantastic," she clicked her tongue as they entered McGonagall's room and joined other trousers-wearing members of SPUW. She would need yet another dress from Parvati.

 

* * *

 

"Oi Ron ! Your fiancée is here !"

 

The redhead wiped his hand across his sweaty forehead, even though he knew it was no use. Anyway, Lavender knew what he looked like when he was working. So he made his way out of the kitchen and joined the refreshing cool of the shop. His brothers grinned at him. He frowned and gestured to the kitchen with his head. They grumbled but agreed and left them alone. Finally, he turned to his fiancée.

 

As always, he was left gaping. She was standing in a puddle of sun, skin fair, cheeks pink and curls as golden as the faux décors in the shop. Her faint pink ensemble only flattered her. He could not help but break into a beam and she followed in turn. God he loved her.

 

"Hi Won-Won..."

 

"Good morning Lav'..."

 

He fell into another contemplation of her. Her kindness and pride shone through her.

 

"Oi we need the shop don't take too long !"

 

His two irksome brothers snapped him out of the reverie. As usual.

 

"Won-Won," she blushed, "I wanted to talk to you about our wedding."

 

Immediately he paled. Did she want to cancel it ? Did she not love him anymore ?

 

"We should bring it forward."

 

He let out a sigh of relief. She chuckled, aware of the small emotional crisis she had just caused.

 

"God, you're so easy to trouble !"

 

"Only you can do that !" he smiled, "but why bring it forward ? I thought your parents could only get here in October ?"

 

She fidgeted with her hands. "I know, but I also know you would like Hermione to be there and you know... Since she might go to Paris..."

 

Ron gave her a fond look. Lavender had always been quite comprehensive of his previous relationship with Hermione, even though at first she had been a bit possessive, she had calmed down seeing that Hermione did not intend to steal him from her.

 

"Lav' that's... incredible."

 

"I know," she laughed tinkling, "you'll owe me a great deal after that. A honeymoon in Italy perhaps ?"

 

He leaned over the counter, his eyes slightly darkening with desire at the mention of the honeymoon.

 

"For you my luv ? Anything."

 

She gave him a satisfied smile before leaving, accentuating her walk in order to flatter her shape. She had won yet another round of their couple life. But it was not a fight. It was just their life.

 

Fred slapped Ron's head.

 

"Oi !"

 

"Stop dreaming you've got bread to make !"

 

Ron swore under his breath, which earned him another slap, this time from George.

 

"You kiss our mother with that mouth ?"

 

"You swear all the time !" quipped Ron back petulantly.

 

"Because we're older, _we're adults_."

 

Avoiding another slap, Ron slipped in the kitchen to snort at Fred's remark. Alas, George had anticipated the move. Bloody fuckers.

  

* * *

 

 

Hermione did not listen to McGonagall's rehearsal at all. The piece was not one of her favourite, it was _Il Barbiere di Siviglia, ossia l'Inutile Precauzione_ , they would only accompany an opera. She knew her colleagues would think her pretentious if she voiced her thoughts. She kept them to herself but she wanted much more. She wanted to be a soloist and to be admired. She wanted to end her piece, look at the audience, smile slyly and tilt her head. Then the public would break into thunderous applause. Newspaper would admire her playing.

 

In other words, she wanted what Tom Riddle had lived. The prodigy pianist who turned out to be an even more brilliant conductor. He had conducted his first orchestra at the age of nineteen. And it had been the Royal Opera. She was already _late_.

 

But maybe the Opéra de Paris was her Royal Opera. She gnawed on her lip.

 

"Granger !" whispered Pansy.

 

'Hum ?"

 

"Riddle's asking for you outside."

 

She nodded and gave a small smile to her friend. As discreetly as possible, she exited the gallery into the corridor. Riddle was indeed standing there. Dressed. She felt her cheeks heat up at the memory of him in his rooms. She could be so bloody impulsive sometimes. She should force herself to think things through more often.

 

"You asked for me sir ?"

 

He gave her a piercing look. She felt naked under his scrutiny. But she did not know why. Knowledge haunted his eyes and she had no idea what it might be.

 

"Yes, I wanted to give you the money you so... _bluntly_ asked me for."

 

Her cheeks were probably now as red as her dress had been. She took the envelope from his hand. His fingers barely grazed her knuckles but she had felt their now familiar coldness. She met his eyes. They were still a dark grey. Had he not been affected by yesterday ?

 

"Thank you."

 

"It's only right."

 

They stood in uncomfortable silence. It was as deafening as the silence right after a piece was finished. She wanted to break it. She did not want to leave.

 

"Sir..."

 

"Yes, Ms Granger ?"

 

Suddenly the thought of Madame Maxime's offer seemed to be the only thing she could conjure. But with it came the idea of staying in Riddle's orchestra. Yet, she felt it would be foolish to do so if she was not made soloist. With Avery sick and, clearly incompetent, she needed to take her chances.

 

"I was wondering what you would do about Avery's sick leave ? Who will replace him ?"

 

Had she not been watching him closely, she would not have noticed the way his posture straightened and his jaw ticked. But because she knew he knew what she was implicitly asking, she noticed. Those were not good signs.

 

"You'll learn in time, like the whole orchestra Ms Granger."

 

She stepped back and nodded, face closing. Yesterday's memory slowly faded. She remembered all her rehearsals and his sometimes atrocious attitude towards her. It was never outright, it was always sly and so much more painful. This man did not think her to be talented. He did not believe in her. And yet, he had asked her to replace Avery in his quartet. She did not understand him. Maybe that was what it meant to be genius.

 

"I'll see you at the rehearsal tomorrow," he said coldly before departing.

 

Hermione stayed in the deep-red corridor. She was getting more and more confused. For the first time in her life, she realized she had _absolutely no idea_ what to do. And she could not pretend she did anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank you all for reading, and of course special thanks for those who took the time to review. Your support means a lot to me. Even a kudo or a hit is a lot.
> 
> Thank you.


	9. Chapter 9

Tom looked intensely at the cup of hot tea in his hands, full of a tea which name contained much too many syllables and which taste was unnecessarily peculiar, as though he wanted it to explode.

 

"Lemon drops ?"

 

He stared at the odd content of the bowl Dumbledore was holding out. How long would the ancient fool remain the head of this opera ?

 

"No, thank you," he brusquely nodded.

 

Dumbledore only smiled before popping one of the... lemon drops, into his mouth and making a delighted noise.

 

"So, Tom, I've heard about Avery."

 

Tom stiffened. What did the old man want ? And would he ever stop using his first name ?

 

"I wish you had told me yourself. Have you decided on a replacement yet ?"

 

"No sir," he replied coldly, "I have not."

 

Dumbledore smiled genially and gave him a pointed look above his half-moon glasses. Tom fought not to squirm in his seat. He hated that look. He knew the man wanted to make him feel like he was still just a schoolboy in his class. But he did not flinch. He bore the look pretending it did not affect him in the slightest.

 

"You have _no_ idea yet ?"

 

As Dumbledore pressed him, Tom remembered his numerous questions about the Granger woman, the talent he intended to push till its blooming. He instantly realized what this was about. The old man wanted to know if the position would go to Granger or to someone else. Because she used to be McGonagall's protégé. He had been wrong thinking he was the only one who had perceived her talent.

 

"As I said sir, no."

 

Dumbledore gave a sigh crossing his hands on his desk.

 

"I see... Well, Tom, I hope you'll keep me updated."

 

He rose from his chair putting the untouched cup of tea back on the director's desk and nodded tersely.

 

"I'll make sure of it sir."

 

He turned to leave, a relieved breath escaping his lips.

 

"Tom ?"

 

He glanced back at the old fool. "Yes sir ?"

 

"I guess you'll make the announce at the ball tonight ?"

 

His jaw clenched. Where did the old coot get all of this information ? Then, he guessed the ball was not really a private matter.

 

"I intend to sir."

 

Dumbledore beamed. "I've always been particularly fond of balls. They're quite... magical. All those dresses and suits turning in a mesmerizing waltz really resemble the Milky Way don't you think ?"

 

Tom almost snorted. Comparing a ball to an astronomy matter was... pure gibberish. He glanced at the director's shirt which was a midnight blue sprinkled with golden shapes mimicking the shape of stars in the sky. Ridiculous.

 

"It sure does sir."

 

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully and opened one of the heavy-looking envelopes on his desk. He glanced at Tom who successfully managed, although it was difficult, to hide his disgust for the usual twinkle in his eyes.

 

"Off you go Tom."

 

Tom blanched and paused before leaving. He forced himself to exit the office. As soon as he was outside of it, his face contorted grotesquely. He had thought he was now impervious to Dumbledore's taunts and his constant attempts at humiliating him. He realized he had been wrong. But at least he now knew how to control himself in order not be too impulsive. He could not show his true feelings about the old fool.

 

* * *

 

 

"Granger !"

 

Hermione sighed but turned to look at Pansy making a beeline for her. Their last rehearsal before the summer ball was over and the musicians were making their way towards the exit in order to dress for the event of the evening. For once, they would be entertained by an orchestra and would not be the musicians entertaining.

 

The brunette took Hermione's arm with a triumphing grin and led her away from the crowd, deeper in the opera house. The sharp features of her mien only added to the air of determination that Pansy sported.

 

"Where are you taking me if I might ask ?"

 

Her grin widened and she winked mischievously.

 

"You'll see Granger, you'll see."

 

Powerless, Hermione let Pansy lead her in the maze that was the opera house. She did not even care enough to map their way. Finally they stopped in front of a door in a utility corridor. The bushy haired girl frowned. She knew that door. It led to the changing room of the ballerinas and before, it was the place where they put all the costumes.

 

"Dear, you need a dress for tonight."

 

"I already-"

 

"Sh. I don't care. You need a proper dress and you don't exactly have the best of taste when it comes to clothing."

 

Hermione glared at the brunette who took it without flinching but who answered her with a pointed look.

 

"Am I not right ?"

 

She sighed. "Yes you are but I already-"

 

"Sh," whispered Pansy putting a finger on Hermione's lips, "stop talking. Let me use my talents as I let you use yours for... SPEW."

 

The violinist's eyes widened. "You pronounced it well !"

 

"I wanted to shut you up. Evidently, it failed."

 

"I don't care you pronounced it well !"

 

Pansy made a show of sighing dramatically even giving in to rolling her eyes, a gesture she had previously condemned in front of Hermione for being an improper common people's reaction.

 

"I did, now will you please let me help you dress for tonight ?"

 

Hermione beamed. Parvati would also like this final solution. "Of course."

 

Pansy answered her smile with her trademark grin and opened the door leading to the cloakroom. They entered, eyes widening. The room was drowned with clothes of numerous fabrics, some of which Hermione could probably not name. Burgundy, mauve or turquoise clashed. Sequins, taffeta, velvet or silk coexisted although it seemed as if they were each fighting for the spotlight.

 

Hermione was dumbfounded. It was extraordinary. She had known the existence of this room theoretically, as every opera is supposed to have one, but she had never been into it. She could see the costumes of famous operas as well as dress gowns used for the after parties. She let out a delighted squeal when she found the costume of Tchaikovsky's _Nutcracker_. The fabric was soft, probably so that the dancer could move freely while wearing it. The next clothes rail held more classical tutus, white with a tulle skirt. Religiously she took it between her hands. As much as she hated to play for a ballet or an opera, she loved being their spectator.

 

"Granger !"

 

Pansy appeared behind the clothes trail, as though out of thin air, eliciting a gasp from Hermione. Her eyebrows were furrowed and her lips pinched.

 

"We don't have much time."

 

The bushy haired woman nodded and followed the brunette, trying to avoid being squeezed by the voluminous tutus or costumes. They stopped in front of a rack although it would be truer to say Pansy did, Hermione, being behind, did not see which rack she had chosen.

 

"There we should find something suitable for the both of us..." muttered the brunette while searching vigorously.

 

Hermione tried to peek at the clothes rail, unfortunately Pansy was taller than her and even if she was very thin, her movements blocked everything from Hermione's vantage.

 

Finally Pansy turned smirking like the demons did in religious paintings. It did not conjure positive things in the violinist's mind. The brunette was holding two dresses, one a deep green and the other a periwinkle blue. But what struck Hermione were the different waistlines. The periwinkle gown had an Empire waistline, so that would be comfortable. But the green dress had a lower waistline that would commend a corset.

 

Hermione wore dresses like this. But she had managed to avoid tightening her corset too much. Parvati did not mind and neither did Ginny or the people she went out with. But Pansy, who was much more into fashion than any of her other friends were, would mind, she was sure of it.

 

So it was with fear that the bushy haired woman raised her eyes to meet the viola player's. The spark of mischievousness she saw in them did nothing to quell her mounting anxiety.

 

"Yes Granger," she whispered sweetly, "yours is the green one."

 

Hermione's nose scrunched up in fear. Did she still want to comply with Pansy's desires ?

 

"I'd be more comfortable with the periwinkle one really..."

 

Pansy threw her a glare. "Granger, you accepted my help. And you've never worn green since I've known you ! You always wear the same dull colours. I'm pretty sure green would suit you. Trust me."

 

The violinist blushed. She knew Pansy meant the jab as a compliment. She nodded. She could at least try and if she did not like it, she would take Parvati's dress.

 

"I'll try it."

 

The brunette squealed with excitement and immediately led her to the deserted dressing rooms. She carefully set the gowns down on one of the chairs before turning back to Hermione.

 

"Now let's change," she exclaimed with delight putting her hands on her hips.

 

The bushy haired woman looked around. There were no private rooms. "Here ?"

 

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Yes here, don't worry I know what a naked woman looks like and I won't judge you. Plus I'm pretty sure there's no judgment to make that's not positive."

 

Hermione blushed and laughed nervously. The brunette began to take off her blouse and her skirt. She did the same, carefully avoiding looking at her. Hermione was not shy by nature and she had already changed with other women but in context that were much different. After working nine hours straight in front of a sewing machine, no one cared about the other in the changing rooms. But here it was different. First, it was Pansy, an older woman, and it was not in the same conditions. They were not both profusely sweating to the point that they did not smell the acid odour anymore. They were not so exhausted that they could not bring themselves to look. It was oddly... normal she guessed.

 

When she was down to her undergarments, Hermione glanced at Pansy. The woman was busy with the gowns, preparing them. She looked over to her and gave her a comforting smile.

 

"See ? Not so terrible."

 

"I know," chuckled Hermione tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "I'm just not used to changing with other women at the opera."

 

"I understand, but, it will only strengthen our friendship !"

 

Hermione smiled. Yes, she guessed they were now friends even if she had not given it any thought. Pansy straightened and held out the green dress for Hermione to see. It was gorgeous.

 

"Oh no, that will not do."

 

Hermione frowned. "What ?"

 

Pansy put down the gown and went over to Hermione and nodded to her corset. She blushed. It was loose. To put it mildly. Pansy gestured for her to turn. Contrite, she did. When her friend took hold of the strings holding her corset together it was not as bad as she thought it was going to be. It was tight but not so tight that she could not breathe freely. She even managed to take a deep belly breath.

 

Only after it was secured did Pansy help her get into her gown. Before turning to one of the mirrors, Hermione did the same for her. They looked at each other with small smiles. Then, they turned.

 

"Okay," breathed out Hermione eyes wide, "I'll definitely let you dress me up more often."

 

Pansy snorted and they chuckled. Hermione glanced back at her reflection. The dress hugged her waist and then bloomed widely. The neckline was high, grazing her neck. The long sleeves fitted her arms tightly. The deep green complimented the golden colour of her skin. She smiled at herself. She seemed almost as pretty as she did in red.

 

"Well," said Pansy with a sly smile, "let's get out of these, get something to eat and then meet up at the party, alright ?"

 

Blushing, she nodded vigorously, glancing one last time at her reflection. This green, as deep as that of an emerald, was oddly familiar.

 

* * *

 

 

Tom sighed deeply and rubbed his eyes. He had yet to decide who would replace Avery. He had to announce it at the ball as it would be too late to rehearse properly if he announced it any later. He reread the list of potential soloists he had made. Like a magnet, the name at the bottom drew him in. _Hermione J. Granger_.

 

He clicked his tongue, annoyed. He looked up to the name _Theodore Nott_. He knew whom he should choose hierarchically. He knew whom he should choose based on talent. But he wanted to breed his little bird's talent. Would it do to have her be a soloist the first year she played in his orchestra ? It might be too fast. Moreover, it was what Dumbledore wanted. And he hated him. He knew that Nott would not care either way, he had him under his thumb.

 

Once again he sighed and slumped back in his chair, fixing his eyes on the baroque, or rather rococo ceiling. The numerous gold arabesques did not prove to be a good distraction as they only reminded him of _her_. Of his dream. Of her curls. Of her curves. Of her.

 

"Sir ?"

 

The cooing voice snapped him out of his reverie. Umbridge was sweetly looking at him from his office door. He frowned, he had not even heard her entering. He cleared his throat.

 

"Yes ?"

 

"The ball has started sir."

 

He nodded stiffly whishing that she would just go away now that her perfume had reached his nostrils. She must have changed it, and it was even sweeter and flowerier than before, if possible.

 

"I know, thank you Dolores."

 

Her waxy skin was instantly covered in red splotches. She did not blush as prettily as his little bird. She bowed quickly and left. He sighed and rose to open a window. The warm air of July entered his apartments. Behind his window the street was busy and the crowd boisterous.

 

Not sparing those a single glance, he went back to his desk chair, taking his suit's vest. Swiftly he put it on and looked at his wristwatch. Indeed, the ball had started a good half hour ago. His jaw ticked. He was no near the solution to his Cornelian problem.

 

Absent-mindedly he began to button his green cufflinks. He thought back to his previous balls. He had never showed up on time and yet, none of his musicians seemed to care. Well, an hour in they were usually pretty drunk. Sitting back down he decided to wait another half hour. It should give him ample time to finally decide, who should be his next soloist.

 

After all, was the decision so difficult to take ? He was Tom Riddle, prodigy, genius. He was brilliant and those were not his words but those of critics and colleagues. Deciding who would be his soloist should be easy, for him. 

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione laughed loudly as Pansy stumbled on the floor making Luna fall in turn. Neville immediately went to help her get up but the brunette refused his help and managed to stand, an aloof grin fixed on her lips.

 

"I'm 'right", she slurred winking at her friends.

 

"Who knew you could not handle alcohol ?"

 

"Hey," said Pansy pointing her finger at Hermione, "I can, okay ?"

 

"Sure," she chuckled taking her friend's arm.

 

She led her to the centre of the room. A bit of dancing would help her friend fight off the alcohol. After all, the brunette had drunk a bit too many glasses of wine. Hermione herself had indulged herself to four of five. She could feel a faint pounding in her body.

 

Pansy seemed delighted by the idea as she immediately ran to the small orchestra and whispered something in the cellist's ear. He nodded with a small laugh and the brunette went back to Hermione porting an arrogant smirk.

 

"Ladies, let's dance shall we ?"

 

Hermione paled and glare at Pansy. She knew the piece that had just started. It was Offenbach's _Infernal Gallop_.

 

"Oh no," she whispered furiously, "we're not dancing _cancan_."

 

Pansy took her arm and Luna's grinning. "Oh yes we are. Follow my lead."

 

Hermione looked at her friend whose usually pale cheeks were pink and whose lips were stretched into an unbelievably long smirk. She could not help but laugh at the woman drunk manners and she winked at Hannah before taking her arm ceremoniously.

 

The three of them began to imitate Pansy's small leg movements. For the moment she did not raise her leg high up as the music was not at that high point. Hermione dreaded it but she could feel the alcohol doing wonders to her as well. Her cheeks quickly heated up and she laughed freely, dancing without a care to what her colleagues might think.

 

They all managed to follow Pansy as she finally threw her leg high up. She had an inkling that the alcohol lowering their inhibitions was not innocent to it all. Luna almost fell, her long pale hair tumbling down from her tight bun, but they all held her up.

 

They continued to dance the cancan and some of their male counterparts joined them, mirroring their movements laughing. Luna and Pansy watched mischievously as Blaise and Neville took each other arm and burst out laughing as they tried to raise their legs as high as possible.

 

Soon enough almost all of the musicians were dancing the cancan and singing along, raising their leg as high as possible, cheeks red. They turned around the room bursting with excitement. Their suits and gowns brushed against each other although the sound could barely be heard above the music.

 

Even if it was exhausting, Hermione liked how the cool air, or at least cooler than her body, brushed her leg when it was briefly exposed. Even if she loved her dress, it was July and she felt hot. Surprisingly, dancing the cancan was almost... refreshing.

 

Still, she could feel her veins ablaze with the alcohol she had indulged in, as well as with laughter. She threw her head back and closed her eyes, smiling, and dancing. The seconds seemed to dissociate as in a photography of movement were all the parts of said movement are shown. Each movement became independent from the one following and the one preceding. She liked the small buzzing feeling that had invaded her.

 

She raised her head again, laughing merrily as Hannah muttered threats to Pansy who was definitely evacuating at least a bit of alcohol with how energetically she was dancing.

 

Her laughter died abruptly and she sobered up immediately. Riddle was leaning against the doorframe and she was certain that he was staring at her, despite the distance keeping her from being sure. His whole figure was tense. In turn she slightly straightened despite Pansy and Hannah's strong hold on her arms.

 

Her movements began to lessen in sweep, fortunately just as the orchestra switched to a waltz.

 

She felt feverish. Her body was thrumming, like the strings of her violin.

 

Quickly, she turned to face Pansy having broken their cancan formation. The brunette was grinning at her, swaying lightly, hands on her hips. Hermione's blush deepened. Had Pansy seen it ? What was there to see anyway ? The blood pounded in her ears erratically.

 

"I made you dance cancan," finally said the woman hugging her.

 

Hermione nervously chuckled and patted her friend's back before lightly pushing her back on her own feet.

 

"You did."

 

She was smouldering.

 

As Pansy led her once more to the tables, Hermione tried to forget Riddle's presence, his look. She had probably imagined it all anyway. Absent-mindedly she took the glass Pansy held to her and drank its content immediately. Her veins were set ablaze. She could not breathe. Did he look at her like that because she was the next soloist ? Were his looks always so intense ? Did the booze cause her to imagine things ? She patted her chest. She needed fresh air.

 

"Pans', I'm going outside for a minute alright ?"

 

The brunette nodded, taking Blaise's hand to go dance. The cellist gave Hermione a look to assure her that he would look after her friend. She mouthed a thank you before exiting by the back door. Thankfully she knew this part of the Opera, as it was the part where her music's school Hogwarts's dances and concerts took place.

 

She climbed the stairs until she reached the roof of the Opera. She opened the door and was immediately comforted by the cool air of July. She leaned on the railing and closed her eyes as a small breeze grazed her face pleasingly. She took deep breaths and she felt her lungs freshen, renew. The fire was quelled.

 

"I hate the _Infernal Gallop_."

 

Hermione screamed before she saw who had talked. Riddle. The blush came back. She chuckled about her own fear giving him an apologetic look. His face was blank. Except for his eyes. They were blue that close. A dark hue of blue that bordered on dark grey.

 

She narrowed her eyes at his words. "Did you follow me up here ?"

 

"Ms Parkinson said you weren't feeling well, I wanted to make sure you were okay."

 

"Right," she snorted, "I don't think Ms Parkinson is in such a sober like state of mind. Why are you really here ?"

 

His jaw ticked. He took a step forward. The light of the city flooded his features, sharpening them dramatically. He really was a handsome man. Still, this exaggerated sharpening made her somewhat uncomfortable. It fitted his personality, a diamond with rough and sharp edges. She tilted her head back as he took another step. Not a diamond. He was raw talent and intensity.

 

"Green suits you like no other colour."

 

"You didn't answer my question."

 

She pressed against the railing as he took one of her escaped curls to put it back behind her ear. His hand lingered on her cheek, eyes fixed on her messy hair. She did not move away. She swore she could see a storm behind his eyes but it was probably just her imagination. She parted her lips.

 

"I followed you because I wanted to."

 

Her gaze dropped to his lips. Bloody hell even his mouth was perfect. She remembered what he looked like shirtless when she had barged in on him. Once again, she felt feverish, consumed in a fire she refused to understand.

 

"Why's that ?" she whispered not looking away from his lips.

 

The hand on her cheek tensed. She looked back to his eyes. If she had imagined a tempest there a few moments ago, she could not doubt that they had now darkened considerably. She never knew fire could be black. She never knew it could be so tantalizing.

 

"Stop talking little green bird," he murmured.

 

And suddenly, his hands were in her hair, his lips were on hers, their body were pressed together. It was not a tender kiss. It was exhilarating and it alit a fervid craving in Hermione. He pulled on her curls. She moaned against his lips, the sound arousing a small sense of shame in her. It was quickly forgotten.

 

He was insatiable.

 

Their tongues began fighting for dominance. But what Hermione suddenly needed was a sound from him that would be just as urgent, as _corrupt_ as her own moan. So she raked her nails against his back before bringing them up to his head. He only responded by making his assault of her lips more fervid. Instinctively, she pulled on his curls. The avid groan he let escape was _exquisite_.

 

She inhaled sharply and tightened her hold on his hair as he left her lips to leave wet kisses on the column of her neck. A breeze caressed her face, cooling it. She blinked. Was she really kissing and being kissed by her conductor ? Had she _moaned_ in reaction to his ministrations ?

 

She gasped in horror and pushed Riddle away forcefully. He only took a step back, hands lingering on her hips. When had they moved there ? His hair was a mess and his lips were redder than they naturally were. He was the embodiment of their sin. He was still desirable, panting. But he was her conductor. The thrumming did not die down but was joined by an overwhelming feeling of guilt and shame.

 

"We can't do that", she whispered staring at the door leading back to the opera, afraid that if she said it louder, everyone downstairs would hear.

 

"Why not ?"

 

She glared at him. He tightened his hold on her hips.

 

"You're my conductor. And I'm your violinist. This is not appropriate !"

 

He shrugged. "Who cares ? No one has to know."

 

She took his hands of her hips and made for the door before being stopped by his grip on her wrist. She tried to convey as much hatred as possible in her glare. He looked unaffected.

 

"Let me go."

 

He sighed. "Why are you so afraid of this ?"

 

"I'm not afraid ! I'm embarrassed. Because we work together ! If I get promoted, I'll always think it's because of... whatever this is !"

 

"I can be professional."

 

Hermione pulled on her wrist. He did not let go.

 

"I can't believe you," she hissed angrily.

 

"Anyway," he said loudly, "what tells you you're going to get promoted ?"

 

She stopped pulling, dumbfounded. "You asked me to be in your quartet."

 

"As a replacement !"

 

"Who cares ! You chose me over all the other violinists ! You think I'm talented," she seethed.

 

He let go of her wrist and stepped back.

 

"I don't," he coldly stated, "I just needed a replacement. You don't have a particular talent."

 

The slap echoed on the roofs. Dumbfounded, he did not move to face her. She could see the red imprint of her hand. It burnt. She shook her head and bit her tongue trying to push back any tear. She breathed out shakily and glanced at him. His jaw was set and he gazed coldly at the city. He would not apologize.

 

"Just so you know," she whispered furiously trying to keep the sobs from breaking her voice, "Some people think I've got talent."

 

He looked back at her. She did not know if he was shocked or enraged. She did not care anymore. She should have a conductor who knew she was talented and helped her perfect her art.

 

"And I might just accept their offer."

 

Without another word, she left, slamming the door for good measure.

 

In the stairwell, she let out a scream of pure rage, fuelled by the constant humiliation inflicted by the nuisance that was Tom Riddle. At least, she was finally rid of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I hope you liked it. It was tough to write. But I did it. Don't hesitate to review or to ask questions. You can also do so on my tumblr : ffourultraviolence.
> 
> Have a nice day/evening !


	10. Chapter 10

Hermione re-entered the small ballroom and immediately went to Pansy.

 

"I'm leaving."

 

The brunette frowned. "Right now ? Riddle's going to announce who gets to be soloist !"

 

Hermione scowled with contempt. The mere name of the man filled her with disgust. She could feel the trace of his touch. It burnt her like acid. She shivered.

 

"I don't care. Goodbye Pansy."

 

She turned to leave the room just as _he_ entered. She glared at his dishevelled state. She had never seen his hair so messy. Or his lips so red. She sucked in a breath and made her way to the main door.

 

"Hermione," whispered Pansy furiously taking her hands in her own. "You sounded like you meant those goodbyes ! And where the bloody hell are you going ? I thought this was your dream ?"

 

"Attention everyone !"

 

She sent a hateful look at Riddle. He was not looking at her. She hoped he could feel her hate nonetheless. She could still fill all of his touch.

 

"It is. But it won't become true here. I'm going home, let me go !"

 

"No ! Why did you say goodbye ?"

 

"The soloist position will be filled by Mr Nott."

 

The bushy-haired woman pulled her hands harshly from her friend's grasp on them. Pansy stared at her dumbfounded. She could feel tears of anger gathering in her eyes and her cheeks redden. Embarrassment and pure rage fuelled her veins in a confusing mix.

 

"I'm leaving this bloody nightmare of an orchestra," she hissed as she opened the door.

 

"The new first violin will be Ms Granger. Thank you all."

 

Hermione stopped dead in her tracks and blanched. She turned to face Riddle. He was the only one looking at her apart from Pansy, still stunned. He roamed her face in search of joy she guessed. But all she was feeling was humiliation, contempt and wrath. She felt livid. He thought he could get her to stay by making her first violin ? A position she had already achieved to get in McGonagall's orchestra ? He probably thought she would accept it. Did he think she had absolutely no memory ? This man truly believed her to be untalented.

 

Did he only want her to stay to make her his mistress or something ? She felt shame briefly overwhelm her. She had given in to her more primal instincts. It had been a bloody mistake. Anger surged in her veins. If it had been a mistake in her mind, he seemed to believe it could continue.

 

He was trying to _buy_ her with this joke of a promotion.

 

As she was about to shout out insults she reminded herself that she needed to keep a polished professional image, as she would soon be the soloist of Paris's Opéra. She fought to ignore the mounting ire and turned without a word, slamming the door behind her.

 

She was helpless to hold back her tears that ran freely on her flaming cheeks. She felt sick.

  

* * *

 

 

Tom roamed the Opera House's corridors. The rehearsal was supposed to begin in about half an hour. As always, most of his orchestra was already there, despite the fact that half of it had been intoxicated the previous evening. At least the important musicians were, such as his new soloist. But the new first violin was missing.

 

He was _enraged_. He had promoted her. Which seemed to be what she had wanted from him. And she was not here. He hated tardiness and this was more than that, it was blatant disrespect. More infuriating was the fact that she had dared _threaten_ him. As if he could believe her ! Offers from other conductors ! _She had come to him._ She had wanted him as her conductor. She knew what was _best_ for her. And yet. She had dared threaten him.

 

As he heard steps coming from in front of him he raised his head. He blanched. The tall woman smirked at him.

 

" _Merci Monsieur Riddle_ for this _talentueuse_ violinist."

 

She raised her chin haughtily before passing him and taking the stairways. He stilled, stunned. Understanding dawned on him.

 

He heard other steps. Lighter. He knew who it was before they turned the corner.

 

She stopped dead in her tracks when she spotted him, eyes slightly widening, skin paler than usual. He felt heat creep up along his neck. He clenched his fists.

 

"Si-, Mr Riddle."

 

His eye ticked. "Ms Granger."

 

It sounded forced even to him. Foreign and strained. He slowly stalked in her direction. She did not move. She was trying to school her features. He thought he could see the smallest hint of fear in her eyes.

 

They were only separated by a few inches.

 

"Madame Maxime ?"

 

She straightened and glared at him, not visibly impressed by his height. She barely topped his shoulder. His little bird. Thinking she could sing her song elsewhere.

 

"Yes, and a soloist position."

 

He managed to smile, lips pinched. He could see she did not buy it for one second. She was frowning. She was telling the truth.

 

"When ?" he whispered.

 

He could only murmur. He knew that if he tried to speak normally, he would shout. His blood was boiling.

 

"At the private concert."

 

He scoffed. Of course. That had come to bite him in the arse. Not only was she interested in leaving but it was _his_ fault. He could not let her go. She was to be depending on him to nurse her talent to completion.

 

He hated to do concessions. He had already done one the day before. She was insufferable. But she was his.

 

"Stay."

 

Her eyes widened. He felt the elating feeling of victory surge in his veins. It died down as she started scowling. Her eyes were full of rage. He frowned. How could she be angry when he had personally asked her to stay ? How could she think to choose Madame Maxime over him ?

 

"Why did you think she was here ? You're too late Riddle," she snarled.

 

He blinked. He was never too late. She rolled her eyes and groaned before pushing to get past him and make her way. His eyes followed her. She was wearing trousers again. This was not the type of bird that could be put in a cage. She made to turn for the staircase, following in Madame Maxime's footsteps.

 

"I'll make you soloist !"

 

He did not intend for the words to leave his mouth. He had not meant them. But at least she had stilled. She sighed loudly before once again turning to face him. She did not look angry anymore. She looked sad.

 

"You should have done it long ago. I know Tchaikovsky's piece by heart. I'm talented."

 

She was not coming back. She was leaving him. He surged forward and grabbed her wrist.

 

"I know you are. Let me help you bettering your playing."

 

She shook her hand but he only tightened his fingers. She gave him an imperious look. He could feel her fluttering heartbeat. Her cheeks were red, her eyes rimmed with black.

 

"I don't need your help," she whispered.

 

He scoffed. She straightened, lips thinning. Her eyes dared him to mock her, to insult her further with words.

 

"Hermione... No one learns Tchaikovsky's perfectly by themselves..."

 

She sneered, shaking her head in disbelief. "You really think I'm untalented..."

 

"I don't but it's true. I chose this piece because it is one of the hardest to master."

 

She pried his fingers open and went down on the lower step. She looked up at him. He almost physically recoiled. Her gaze was indifferent. No one was ever indifferent to him. Her feet hovered above the next step. Tom's jaw hardened.

 

"You made a mistake. Deal with it."

 

His little bird turned her back to him and disappeared in the staircase. He clenched his fists and forced himself to breathe slowly. He did not know what he was feeling. He leaned on the wall, eyes still fixed on the empty staircase. It was not anger, neither rage. It was frustration and... He had _lost_ his little bird. For the first time, he experienced the taste of failure.

 

Suddenly struck by a brilliant idea, they rarely were anything else, he straightened. For the first time, he ran in the Opera House's corridors to go to the place he hated the most. Dumbledore's office.

 

* * *

  

"I thought he was an asshole ?"

 

"He is !" shouted Hermione.

 

Harry shrugged and began to play with the contents of her small suitcase. "Then why are you complaining about leaving ? Paris seems great."

 

"Because he's bloody brilliant !" she exclaimed throwing her hands in the air. "And he just offered me everything I've ever wanted !"

 

Her friend sighed and shook his head with a small smile. "I know you're ambitious 'Mione but the man sounds like a real wanker from what you've told me."

 

"He is. But he's a prodigy and-"

 

"No. You're only going to hurt yourself if he doesn't respect you."

 

She met Harry's eyes. He was serious and she knew he was right. She sighed, rubbed her eyes and sat beside him on her small bed.

 

"You're right."

 

"Always," he grinned. "Anyway you've already taken the other job so..."

 

Of course he was right. She was being irrational. She chuckled and glanced at the window. The sun was high in the sky. She was not used to being here at this hour. She had never seen so much light in her room.

 

"By the way, when are you leaving ? 'Cause Lav' and Ron want to bring forward the wedding so you can be there."

 

She smiled. "That's so sweet of them..."

 

"It is, so you better be there."

 

She laughed softly. "Is that a threat ? 'Cause I'm going to be there, I only leave on Thursday."

 

"Already packing... Typical Hermione..."

 

She stuck her tongue out playfully before bringing more laundry to put in her small leather suitcase. She had to refrain from yawning. She looked at the content of the small suitcase. She frowned. It only made her realize how little possessions she had.

 

Suddenly Harry took hold of her hand, ignoring her cry of protest as he pulled her arm over him.

 

"Hey watch it !"

 

He turned his head to her and gave her an earnest look. He lifted her hand for her to see. She frowned. What was he trying to do ? Read her palms ?

 

"Your nails are caked with blood..."

 

Hermione shrugged. "Yes, I rehearse you know."

 

"To the point of bleeding ?" he asked disbelievingly.

 

His questions ticked her off. Of course she sometimes bled. The strings were hard and after a few hours, her fingers paid the price. Her job as a seamstress did not help.

 

"Yes," she snapped, "to the point of bleeding."

 

She pulled her hand out of his hold and crossed her arms over her chest. He was still frowning. She knew he was only worrying about her because he loved her. But it bothered her that he questioned her work. If anything, she was dedicated.

 

"This is not healthy."

 

"You've got to stop reading this 'psychology' and 'psychoanalysis' bullshit."

 

"It's fascinating and right !" he scoffed, "your mind needs to be healthy as well as your body and your obsession with your music has gone too far !"

 

"It's just blood ! And it's not an obsession it's a passion !"

 

"Just blood ?! How can you be so casual about it ?"

 

"Because it happens all the bloody time !" shouted Hermione.

 

Harry stared at her dumbfounded. "How come I've never noticed ?"

 

She shrugged. She did not see what was problematic. She assumed every musician did the same. She just played every time she could.

 

"It's not important Harry. I'll just finish packing."

 

He rose from her bed and nodded absent-mindedly. She gave him a tired smile.

 

"At least I'm going away from Riddle, I'll guess that's one less bad influence."

 

* * *

 

"Sir."

 

"Tom !" beamed Dumbledore, "how lovely to see you."

 

Tom stiffened and bowed his head. He could see the glee in the old man's eyes. He was probably only waiting for him to come grovelling for _his_ musician. He contained a snarl. He moved towards the director's desk before slightly leaning on it. The wood felt wonderful under his fingertips. He guessed he would one day be the one behind that desk. He could then burn the old coot's portrait that sat next to the door.

 

His nostrils flared. Dumbledore's smile had only grown as an answer to what was clearly a threatening move from his part.

 

"Do you have something to ask me ?"

 

His eye ticked. The old coot's dulcet voice was only feeding his anger. But he was supposed to act calm, he could not just barge in the man's office and make a scene. He was not a mad man. He was a prodigy. He was brilliant.

 

"Yes," he drawled, "I wanted to know why Ms Granger intends to leave this Opera without asking me first ?"

 

Dumbledore chuckled softly. Tom's hands clenched nervously. He leaned back eyes fixed on the old man.

 

"Well, first of all, Ms Granger is going to leave this Opera."

 

No, she was not.

 

"Then, she did not give you any notice because, she doesn't have to do so. She can just come to me."

 

"As my first violin I'd expect that she'd answer to me."

 

"You could expect it, but it would not be so. She's a free bird, as are all of our musicians !"

 

 _Free_. An illusion that too many people kept going. She might not know towards what she was determined, but it did not mean she was not. And she was determined to be in his orchestra. Not the orchestra of a ridiculously tall French woman.

 

"Of course, but I think I should have a say on the matter. I am her conductor."

 

"You only have been so for a few weeks Tom. And from what I understand," stated Dumbledore staring at him over his half-moon spectacles, "you did not behave in a proper way with her."

 

Tom's cheeks reddened. She could not possibly have spoken about their kiss. Granger was much too proper for such things. Although she did wear pants.

 

"She told me you did not believe her to be talented."

 

He almost let out a sigh of relief. He should have expected her to complain about such trivial and narcissistic things.

 

"That is something she assumed Sir. I'll go myself to assure her of it. Give me her home address so that I can make sure she stays with us."

 

"I don't think that'll be necessary Tom. Anyway only you have the files of your musicians."

 

He gritted his teeth. He needed to tell her. She would not come back to the Opera House.

 

"I assure you I never believed such a thing, in fact I'm here because I believe in her talent."

 

"Perfect !" beamed the director.

 

Tom frowned. Perfect ? Did it mean Granger would have to stay in his orchestra ? Dumbledore winked at him. Tom stiffened. That was not a good sign.

 

"She should come to audition for Madame Maxime in a few moments, you won't even need to go to her house !" whispered the man.

 

The conductor stared, incredulous, at the old coot. "Why would she need to audition ?"

 

"Oh she doesn't, I think Madame Maxime just want to show me what a talent I'm losing to her."

 

Tom was stunned. This meeting was taking a turn he had not at all anticipated.

 

"You should be more pleased Tom, our French colleague chose the first movement of Tchaikovsky's concerto, the very piece you're working on !"

 

He felt the blood leaving his face. This was a nightmare. He did not want to see her perform this piece. He did not want to face what might be a failure. Of his. He slowly stepped back.

 

"I think I'll go. This is none of my business."

 

"Nonsense !" smiled Dumbledore. "Anyway here they are !"

 

Tom stumbled back as the door opened behind him. He stared wide-eyed at the two women who entered the office. Madame Maxime glanced at him with contempt before focusing on Dumbledore. Tom almost did not see her. He could only see his little bird. Her hair was in better shape than this morning. Only a few curls were adorning her neck.

 

She pointedly avoided looking in his direction as soon as she realized he was there. She was holding her violin and her bow. Her jaw was set. He felt crushed.

 

This was what it felt like to make a mistake.

 

" _Alors_ , let's begin _très chère_ !"

 

He blinked and glanced at the two others. He joined them on their side of the office and took one of the seats. He kept staring at her. Her hands were slightly shaking. Her eyes were alternating between Dumbledore's and Madame Maxime's. He wanted her to look at him. He was thrumming.

 

She nodded determinedly and took a deep breath before bringing her violin in the right position. As soon as she slightly lowered her head, more curls escaped her hairdo. As always, her instrument was soon drowned in said curls.

 

She took another deep breath. His biggest mistake might have been staying in the office.

 

She slowly raised her arm and closed her eyes, her lashes caressing the shadows under her eyes. Just as the strings of her bow were about to touch the strings of her violin he realised he had never heard the piece played without an orchestra.

 

His little bird started playing, slightly frowning, lips pinched.

 

Abruptly, it was as though he was falling. And it was thrilling.

 

His eyes could not leave her hands. Her delicate fingers holding the bow like it was the most precious jewel in the world. Her other fingers moving swiftly across the fingerboard, flying above the strings before lightly pressing on them. It was delicate. And yet, the sounds she made were everything but. The music was violent, conflicted, and yet so ethereal.

 

He did not dare breathe. It might break the precarious harmony. He knew that it was precarious because something so painfully beautiful could not be strong. It was as weak and perfect as a fluttering butterfly.

 

He knew the piece by heart and so did she. He held his breath as one of the hardest moment approached. His eyes left her hands for her face. She was frowning, lips slightly parted, eyes still closed. And so pale.

 

She began to accelerate the movements of her bow hand to match the piece's rhythm. Her frown deepened. He stared at the small crease between her brows as she moved fast and began to stroke the strings more violently, determined to show the lack of harmony, which made the whole piece so beautiful. She approached the difficult passage, a climb to the highest note yet. As she inhaled sharply, she reached it.

 

Tom started to feel sick. She continued to play, alternating between light and savage strokes.

 

He stared at her delicate and yet ferocious hands once more. His mistake began to feel more and more serious as she kept on playing. He could not believe he had made the wrong choice. Of course he had not, Nott was perfectly capable, but it had ultimately led to the loss of a talent he could not afford to lose. He would not lose her.

 

He stiffened as she played the middle of the piece, the hardest passage of them all, much too skilfully. Tom noticed a few mistakes, more different interpretations of the music sheet than mistakes per se, but he knew he could not talk about them after the performance. It would be petty. But he felt like being petty. He had the right to be. The brat was intent on leaving him for a much less talented conductor just when he had offered her everything.

 

He continued staring. She had stopped frowning as she had mastered the hardest passage and had started to smile fondly, eyes still closed. The desire to have her look at him as she plays surged through him. He sucked in a breath.

 

This was a nightmare.

 

He was throbbing. He could almost feel his skin flutter every time she approached a high note, caressed it before tumbling. He probably looked mad. At this instant, he probably was. Her hands, her curls, her stretched lips. It was too much.

 

Tom abruptly rose, staring at her. He took a step forward and stopped. She had not stopped playing. Her jaw had ticked so he knew she was aware of him. He wanted her to feel the same thrill, the ruinous fervour he felt.

 

She sighed. Her lips fluttered. He did not hear it. He saw the curls on the wood tremble under the breath. He remembered kissing her.

 

He had not known lust could ever come from music.

 

He blanched, fists clenching spasmodically. He moved past her not hearing Dumbledore's soft voice. He could not hear anything but the haunting sound of her song. It was luring him back. He was Ulysses and she was nothing but a deceitful mermaid. As he tried to ignore his boiling blood, he made his way to his office. He guessed his musicians had understood there would be no rehearsal this day. He was more than an hour late.

 

He could not trust himself to see Nott and not attack him.

 

* * *

  

Harry fiddled with the small teacup in front of him. Lavender poured a brown-coloured tea in it with a soft smile. She presented him with the milk and the sugar and he added both generously to the hot beverage. Satisfied with her hostess skills the blonde grinned to herself and sat in front of the raven-haired boy before pouring herself a cup of tea.

 

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure ?"

 

Harry squirmed in his seat. He had come to see Ron but apparently the man had had to move his day off to another day as Fred and George needed help with the catering. He liked Lavender but he knew Hermione was still a tender spot for her, even if she did her best to hide it for Ron.

 

"Just came to... congratulate you for the wedding..."

 

She chuckled. "You've already done it plenty of times."

 

"Can't hurt to say it once more," he shrugged before sipping the tea.

 

It was still bitter despite the milk and sugar. He managed not to grimace.

 

"You're here to talk about Hermione aren't you ? You wanted to see Ron but he wasn't there ?"

 

Harry's eyes widened. "How did you ?"

 

"I'm not daft Harry, you were just beating around the bush. So, when can she come ?"

 

When had he become this unobservant ? First Hermione and then Lavender. Or had it always been this way ?

 

"Hum, Wednesday, she leaves on Thursday."

 

"So it leaves us four days of preparation..."

 

He nodded unsure of what else to do.

 

"Should do the trick," she muttered staring at the inside of her now empty teacup.

 

He frowned. She was staring intently.

 

"Well, the tea leaves are positive at least. Do you have a dinner jacket already ?"

 

"Yeah, an old one that I use for receptions and stuff."

 

"Perfect. Wear it on Wednesday. I'll send you the details on Monday."

 

Harry rose with a small smile. She appeared to be as organized as Ron kept claiming she was. She ushered him out of the small flat they shared. As he prepared to leave she stopped him lightly grabbing his arm.

 

"Do you think Ron would be happy if she played ? Do you think she would accept ?"

 

He beamed. "It's a wonderful idea. I'll ask her tomorrow and I can already tell you she will say yes."

 

"Good," she sighed, "that's all I want, to make him happy."

 

"I know."

 

As he left, he knew she was sincere. And he hoped Hermione would accept to play. Although not if it meant she would spend more time bleeding to death.

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione felt lost. She was walking in the streets of London, mind lost in a stupefied reverie. She did not see nor hear anything. Her skin was cadaverous. She felt sick, nausea threatening to send bile burning her throat. She had not eaten much the last two days. Her limbs felt as heavy as her head felt light.

 

Her ears were still full of her rendition of Tchaikovsky. Of her countless mistakes. Madame Maxime and Dumbledore had feigned not to notice them. But she knew _he_ had.

 

 _He had left the room_. Her playing was so insufferable that he had not been able to bear it till the end. Her eyes felt teary. She furiously wiped at them with the hand that was not holding the case of her violin. She lifted it to meet her eyes. What good was it ? What good was she ?

 

She glanced around. She was nowhere near the Thames. She swore under her breath. She was in front of her building. As she realized it, it was as if all of her anger had vanished. She felt even emptier than before. She sighed, feeling her throat tighten with restrained sobs.

 

She climbed up the stairs slowly, all the energy of the morning gone with the taxing piece. He had been right, she should never have believed she could master Tchaikovsky by herself. She needed someone to train her. He had offered his help and she had refused.

 

She stumbled into her room. Her right hand flexed before releasing the case. She did not register the heavy noise it made. She closed the door absent-mindedly before laying down on her bed. She pushed her suitcase on the ground without a care for the contents, which scattered across the room.

 

Hermione stared at the ceiling.

 

She had forgotten the possibility to fail. To not play a piece perfectly. She raised her hand to her face. It was wet. She spread her salty tears on her cheek.

 

Suddenly she was crushed by a wave of pure self-loathing. She pressed her hand against her mouth as she screamed all her rage. It felt good and yet not enough.

 

She rose, slightly staggering from the exhaustion, and took her violin case, opening in it on the ground. She kneeled and took the precious instrument and the bow in her hands. She shivered. She ignored it, not seeing the paleness of her long hands. She set her instrument into position and closed her eyes.

 

She needed to eradicate any mistakes.

 

She began to play forcefully, not hearing the wail of the strings as she pressed on them with her bow. Her arm movements were frantic. She panted. Her fingers pushed on the strings forcibly. She did not feel the skin of her fingertips yield and break. She did not smell the blood marring her violin and her hand.

 

She was feverish with sound.

 

Suddenly her violin was not in her hands anymore. She frowned and opened her eyes. She gasped in outrage.

 

"You !" she shouted immediately raising to her feet.

 

She quickly realized that the abrupt movement had been a mistake. She merely had the time to inhale sharply before her vision went black.


	11. Chapter 11

Tom kept staring at her, sprawled on the messy floor of her small room. He remained there for what felt like hours, even though he knew only a few minutes had passed when he got on his knees. He quickly turned her on her back, hands fumbling.

 

She was paler than usual, how had he not noticed it before ? Dark rings had grown under her eyes. Her lips were parted. The colour was quickly fading. He brought his hand to her mouth, a wilting flower. He could barely feel the air escaping and then being sucked into her lungs.

 

"Hermione ?"

 

She did not react. He softly patted her cheek. Once again, no reaction. He heard his own breath fill the room and quicken, alone when it should not have been. He closed the door, careful not to hit her head, before pulling her upper body on his knees.

 

As he drew her closer to his chest, to his warmth, he grasped her arms tightly. Her skin was _so cold_. For a moment, he doubted she was still alive. Her usually golden skin was almost as pale as his. He checked for breath again. He then remembered what physicians did and took her wrist to check for any pulse. He could barely feel it, humming underneath his thumb. It was not humming; it was fluttering, fighting to keep on going.

 

He closed his eyes, feeling a wave of panic wash over him. He crushed her hands in his. Maybe the pain would wake her up.

 

It did not.

 

But he felt warmth under one of his hand. He glanced at it. His eyes widened. The tips of her fingers were cut. There was blood on her hand. Warm, vermilion blood. It was on his too.

 

Tom looked around the room to find the source of the superficial injury. When his eyes fell on her violin, lying on the ground next to her, wood lightly streaked with screaming red blood, his heart swelled. She had been playing.

 

He felt his lips tip up in a smile. Of course she had been playing. That awful tune, if one could call it that, that he had heard in the hallway had been hers.

 

He carefully took her in his arms; it was terrifying to hold an unconscious person, limbs heavy, drenched in death like a heavy slumber, before standing and laying her on the small cot. His smile died as he was faced once again with her terrifying paleness. She was still not moving.

 

He left her side to rummage through the mess. He picked up every piece of linen that was not clothing and carefully placed them on her. It should warm her.

 

Tom stared at her face, the only part of her not covered in white thick linen. Her brows were furrowed. He softly buried his hand in her hair. It was dry. He leaned in. It smelled like sweat. It smelled like her. He took in deep breaths.

 

"My little bird," he whispered, lips moving against the crescent of her ear, "why would you want to sing for anyone else ?"

 

Her only answer was her breath. He could hear it again. He had saved her, from her own talent. He had been the lifeline she had needed.

 

He felt a rush in his ears, blood suddenly pounding. He imagined her playing to the point of bleeding, brown eyes wide with wrath, hair sparkling with adrenalin.

 

He imagined her playing _only for him_.

 

Caged in his apartment, singing her violin song for his pleasure. He imagined she would like it, would like to be pampered by him. She would dress in trousers and kimonos and would never tie her hair.

 

His lips found her cheek. It was warmer. He felt himself set ablaze.

 

Her shallow breath fanned over his face. He blinked. She was still unconscious. He leaned back. Her cheek had scorched his lips. Her own lips were quickly reddening. The flower was blooming. The rushing blood coloured them red.

 

He did not know why he felt so hot.

 

He stood and glanced around. The window was closed. He scoffed. That explained his strangely elevated body temperature. He strode across the room and opened the small square of glass. No fresh air surged inside the small room. If anything, the air was heavier, more humid.

 

He looked at the infuriatingly unconscious woman. He had not come to her home to play the caring nurse. He had come to convince her to stay. He had come to show her that he would not take it lightly to lose her. He had come to admit he had been mistaken. He rarely did that. But the bloody violinist had _fainted_ when she had seen him.

 

A smirk graced his lips. So he too affected her. He rather liked the idea. He had already known it of course, she had not pushed him away when they had kissed, but not to the point of fainting. That set a personal record of his he guessed.

 

But he had not come all the way to _a working-class area_ to see her faint.

 

He sat beside her. He knew what he had to do. She would probably hate him. He shrugged. She already did, after all she was entertaining the possibility of leaving his orchestra.

 

He raised his hand, eyes firmly fixed on her less pale mien. The sound his hand made when it made contact with her cheek was astounding. He had not expected it to be so loud.

 

At least it worked.

 

As soon as the blow had been delivered, Hermione had gasped and raised to a sitting position, eyes widened in confusion and pain. Her hand immediately went to her deliciously turning pink cheek.

 

"What the bloody fuck ?" she whispered.

 

He saw the exact moment she realized it was him, sat on her bed. Hand very red. Her lips pinched and she frowned. She glared at him hatefully.

 

"You were unconscious."

 

Her face turned incredulous. "So you _slapped_ me ?"

 

"It worked."

 

She scoffed and tried to push him off the bed with a groan. He contained a laugh. The attempt was quite pitiful. It was as if she had not heard that she had fainted mere moments prior.

 

"Get off my bed," she said through gritted teeth, hands pressing on his side, in vain.

 

He chuckled and shook his head no before making a move to lie down on her legs. She shrieked slightly, trying to move out of his way. Of course she was currently too weak to do so. He sent her a grin.

 

"I rather like it."

 

Finally seeming to notice how useless her attempts at removing him from her were, she fell back on the cot with a sigh. He could see her profile, framed by delicate curls, no, nothing about them was so much as delicate.

 

"Why was I unconscious ?"

 

He pinched his lips. She was staring at the ceiling. She knew he guessed. She just needed to hear it aloud.

 

"Exhaustion. Hunger."

 

She closed her eyes. He straightened to a sitting position. Her eyelashes were short. He had never noticed how black they were.

 

"Yeah that happens," she whispered.

 

Tom frowned. "How can you be so casual about it ?"

 

She met his eyes. There was a determined glint in their depth. He had never noticed people's eyes had _depth_ before. He guessed she was not just anyone.

 

"Because it's normal isn't it ? We're passionate people."

 

A thrill went through him. Like electricity.

_We_.

 

She had finally seen how similar they were. He had to contain a victorious grin. It was harder than he would have thought.

 

They stared at each other for a moment. Her eyes were hard, unforgiving. He liked it.

 

"I guess we are."

 

"So you understand, don't you ? The need."

 

He inhaled sharply and leaned unconsciously towards her. "What need ?"

 

Of course he understood. But he was now the one who needed to hear her voice it aloud. She unrelentingly kept looking into his eyes. He was thrumming with greed.

 

"The need for sound," she breathed out, "we need to create _perfection_."

 

She glanced at his lips. He could hear a crashing sound in his ears.

 

"We bleed, but we're ready to sacrifice so much more."

 

She was devouring him, pouring molten lead in his veins, singing her siren song to his ears. She had never been a bird. He should have seen her as she really was. Dangerous. A flame licking his skin and daring him to step closer. And it was so... _tantalizing_.

 

"What are you willing to sacrifice ?" he whispered.

 

Her eyes widened slightly. But she was neither afraid nor surprised. She was just as thrilled as he was.

 

"Everything."

 

He wanted her to be his. In every way. She could never go to Paris. She could never leave him.

 

"Then sacrifice your pride."

 

He realized how close they had been when she jerked back. She looked at him, in horror, as though he had just burnt her. As he made a sudden move to grab her arm, he had trouble bearing the sudden distance, she recoiled against the wall.

 

Her cheeks suddenly drained of all colour.

 

"My pride ?" she whispered incredulously.

 

He frowned. Did she not realize just how bloody proud she was ? He had asked her to stay in his orchestra and she had said no. It was of course just to spite him, because he had hurt her ego. He understood.

 

"What else would push you to Paris ?" he snarled.

 

She scoffed. "To an environment where people tell me I'm talented ? God, I have no idea."

 

He rose. Her neck and cheeks were quickly reddening. How dared she be angry at him and use sarcasm when it should _logically_ be the contrary ?

 

"I've told you countless times that you're talented," he coldly stated.

 

"Countless times ?" she laughed.

 

He hated that laugh. It was insincere. It sounded too much like the one he used at balls and whatnots.

 

"Do I need to stroke your little ego every bloody day ?"

 

She stopped laughing immediately, turning a hard gaze on him. He could almost feel the anger itching his skin. She was so ungrateful. He had come to her home. What else did she need ? She would probably be dead by then had it not been for him.

 

"No. You only need to do it once. Sincerely."

 

"You're talented."

 

She scowled openly. He glanced at her mouth before looking back into his eyes. They were ablaze with what he guessed was hatred.

 

If he had to truly disclose once what he truly thought of her playing for her to stay, he would gladly do it.

 

"You played Tchaikovsky like I had never heard it before. It was not perfect but, with the correct conductor, you could near _perfection_."

 

"I'm guessing you'd be that correct conductor."

 

"Who else ?"

 

She straightened. "Madame Maxime seems good."

 

He scoffed. It was almost insulting to be compared to that poor excuse of a conductor.

 

"So you came here to beg me to stay ?"

 

His gaze hardened. She smirked. She still looked much too tired.

 

"I do not beg."

 

She rolled her eyes. "You came here. Might as well be on your knees."

 

He wondered for a second if it would help. Probably not. She was right, he had made one hell of a gesture coming here. She shook her head and sighed before settling her eyes back on him. They were tired, empty of the hatred that was previously filling them.

 

"Thank you," she whispered.

 

"Why ?" he blurted out.

 

She shrugged and glanced at her mess on the floor. He followed her gaze. Her violin was still there, strings lightly tinged by the red of her blood.

 

"For coming. For saying that I've got talent."

 

"Did you ever doubt you did ?"

 

She raised her head sharply, eyes narrowing. "Did you ?"

 

He was taken aback. He actually never had. He thought she was the same. He moved closer to the bed. She shook her head.

 

"Please, leave me alone," she breathed out.

 

It was like lightning. It was deafening. She could not be serious.

 

As he was about to answer her, the door opened. Tom turned, frowning, to face a young man with messy black hair and crooked glasses. He eyed Tom warily before turning to her.

 

"Hermione, you alright ?"

 

She beamed. The man had made all her exhaustion and overall sadness go away. Tom had never thought she could have a fiancé or a husband. He had never thought she could have a life outside of the Opera House. Outside of him.

 

"Yeah, Mr Riddle was just leaving."

 

She gave him a pointed look and he thought it best not to insist. It tore him apart. As he turned to leave, he saw that the man was looking at him suspiciously. He brushed past him to leave but still heard the barely veiled threat.

 

"Don't come back here."

 

He swallowed and ignored the man. As he stood in the corridor, alone, he felt like there was not much more he could do to have her stay. His jaw hardened as he realized what he could still do.

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione sighed and lied back down as Harry looked at her disapprovingly, arms crossed across his chest. She frowned.

 

"Don't look at me like that ! I didn't ask him to come."

 

"I've got no problem with you seeing people Hermione, but he's the guy you've been complaining about for more than a month."

 

"So ?"

 

He shook his head. "So you didn't seem close. Why is he paying you a visit ?"

 

"To keep me from going to Paris."

 

Harry gave her a pointed look. She did not waver.

 

"You mean to keep you from leaving him."

 

She pinched his lips. He had phrased it that way to. Or in a similar fashion. He had said "Don't leave." She had heard the "me". She knew it had almost escaped his lips.

 

"Of course not Harry," she snapped.

 

She could only imagine how he would react if he learnt she had kissed her boss, boss that she thoroughly hated. He would be pissed and worried. She did not need that. At least not about that. He frowned.

 

"You look like a fright."

 

She scoffed. "Have you ever heard of politeness ?"

 

He ignored her quip and sat by her side on her small cot. He carefully took her face in his hands and examined it. She noticed he unconsciously mimicked Molly's gestures whenever one of them had fallen or done something that might have harmed them. He dropped his hands to his knees and glared at her.

 

"When was the last time you slept ?"

 

"Last night."

 

"Liar."

 

She winced. It was not untrue. She had slept last night, it had been a fitful and hardly resting sleep, but it had been sleep nonetheless. When Harry glanced at her hands, she knew she was in for a homily.

 

"You have blood under your fingernails."

 

Hermione sighed and wrung her hands together, willing the red crust under her nails to go away. She could feel Harry's worried stare on her. She regretted that Riddle had left. Harry would not have dared remark on her frayed state had there been an outsider there.

 

"Was it something he did or said that pushed you to... do that ?"

 

"I don't need anyone to push over that edge Harry."

 

He visibly shivered. She guessed he was disgusted by her actions, by her propensity to act like a bloody mad woman. She looked at her nails. Anywhere but at him, she did not want to see his disappointed expression. It was true that it was kind of horrifying, those carmine crescents against her pink nails.

 

"Are you going to keep doing it in Paris ?" her friend softly asked.

 

She felt like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She smiled tiredly and looked at him. He was not disgusted. He was worried for her and not unbearably so.

 

"Can't say that I won't."

 

He nodded and gave her a timid smile before embracing her in a tight hug. "You know we'll always be there for you, don't you ?"

 

She shook her head in the affirmative, not trusting herself to speak. She could feel tears of gratitude, and probably of exhaustion, gathering in her eyes. As he let go of her, she quickly wiped her eyes with her hand, sniffing lightly. He chuckled and did the same. The two friends then shared a fond look.

 

"I came to ask you to play at Ron and Lavender's wedding," he said thoughtfully putting one of her wild curls behind her ear, "but now I'm not so sure I want you to do it."

 

"I will. Who asked ?"

 

"Lavender."

 

Hermione gave a little smile. "That's nice of her."

 

"She's nice."

 

"Yeah she is."

 

"But," teased Harry, "I'll never forget 'Won-Won'".

 

She burst out laughing. It was true that the nickname was ridiculous. He chuckled before his face turned serious again.

 

"Hermione, promise me you won't seek him, you won't regret his torture in Paris."

 

Her laughter immediately died. Of course she was aware of who he meant. She did not like it. Of course she would not do any of those things. She knew that Harry only cared for her but this was not any of his business.

 

"Of course."

 

As she said it, she knew the words had been lies. She could not promise such a thing. After all, as she kept repeating herself and others, Tom Riddle was a prodigy.

 

And that day, she had learnt he was a prodigy who thought her talented.

 

She wanted to go to Paris. To leave his toxic vicinity. But she was also aware, she had been from their first meeting, that she could not resist his siren song for long, should he, as he had put it, "stroke her ego".


	12. Chapter 12

Tom pressed forcefully on the keys of the piano. He had fortunately managed to drown the memory of her playing. Less fortunately, he had to play in order to silence said memory.

 

He shook his head sending his hands waltzing dexterously over the keys. He closed his eyes and let himself be overwhelmed by the sound he was creating.

 

Nonetheless, her siren song seemed to find him, even though his ears were devoted to his own tune.

 

He rose abruptly, sending his piano stool down, and tried to play even louder, pressing the pedals and beating the keys with his fingertips. Unconsciously, he started playing Tchaikovsky's violin concerto. It did not help. He could hear her version, almost perfect, in the Opera House, superimposed with her horrendous rendition in her flat. He could see her bloodied fingers and her frenzied eyes.

 

He could neither _un_ see nor _un_ hear her.

 

Tom let out a loud yell of frustration and took what was closest to him, a book of music sheets, and threw it on the opposite wall. Panting, he looked at the leaves scattering to the ground. Pitiful.

 

He was _possessed_. She must have been a witch, she must have cursed him to drown in her. She must have done something to bring him to his knees. For he could not be so weak on his own.

 

He let himself fall on the ground, spreading on the plush carpet. Even the arabesques adorning his ceiling reminded him of her. They were like her hair, golden and brown locks curling incessantly, infuriatingly, thrillingly.

 

He rubbed his eyes forcefully to try to erase the mere image of her. She was gone, there was no point in entertaining the idea of conducting a ghost. Tom pressed his hands against his ears, screwing his eyes shut.

 

His blood sung in harmony with her thrilling tune. And it was not only Tchaikovsky. It was new, thrilling, oppressive, and _too much_.

 

"Get out of my head."

 

For the first time, Tom Riddle feared for his sanity.

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione took the last pin from between her lips and put it in her hair. Carefully, she let her hands down, eyeing her hairdo. It seemed to hold. She smirked before quickly slipping on Parvati's red dress, the girl had once more accepted to lend it to her, and then in her small red slippers. She gave a last glance to her reflection in the mirror. Good enough.

 

Without giving her appearance another thought, she took her small beaded purse and her violin case before heading out of the Weasleys' small bathroom. She joined Harry in the living room.

 

"You're in my column," he beamed.

 

She rolled her eyes but gave him a small smile of her own. Her best friend had written about her transfer to the Opéra de Paris in his lifestyle column. Even though she was aware it was partly because of their friendship, she was proud. Finally some recognition.

 

"So you've told me six times."

 

He chuckled. "Be prepared to hear it again and again !"

 

Hermione shook her head and as he went back to reading, she set her two bags on the dinner table and took her violin out. She was going to be in tune while playing at her best friend's wedding.

 

She swiftly brought the instrument to its rightful position, on her shoulder, and pressed her cheek against the cold wood. She could not help the smile that graced her lips at the contact. It was not much to outsiders. To her, it was everything.

 

She tuned her violin with professional accuracy and speed before putting it back in its case. She had cleaned the fingerboard. Except for Harry and Riddle, no one would know about her...excessive devotion to the playing of her instrument. If one could ever be excessive when it came to perfecting one's art.

 

Ginny, Ron's sister, came in the living room frowning.

 

"Someone for you Hermione."

 

She nodded and rose, purposefully ignoring the pointed look Harry gave her. She knew he was thinking about Riddle. To be truthful so was she, compulsively. But she also knew it could not be him. He probably would not dare come back after what had transpired at her flat. It had happened days ago and yet... The memory of it always felt instantaneous.

 

She opened the front door and sighed in relief when she was met with Pansy Parkinson reproachful face. Hermione could not help but smile.

 

"Can we talk outside ?"

 

She nodded and followed the brunette out of the building and into the small park that was facing it. They sat on a bench. Clouds hid the sun, as always. Pansy looked pissed off.

 

"We haven't had a rehearsal this week."

 

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "Not one ?"

 

Pansy sighed. "We had one, but Riddle came in for ten minutes before leaving. He basically just said you left and MacMillan was to replace you as first violin."

 

She frowned. That was odd.

 

"When were you going to tell me you intended to leave ?"

 

Hermione felt her cheeks redden suddenly. "Hum... Before doing so ?"

 

Pansy gave her a pointed look. "And when are you actually leaving ?"

 

"Tomorrow ?"

 

The brunette glared at her before glancing away. Hermione noticed the way her fists were clenched around fistfuls of fabric of her dress. Guilt seeped in her bones. She should have told Pansy before, as well as Luna or even all the S.P.E.W. members.

 

She had been selfish.

 

"I'm sorry."

 

"You should have told me."

 

Hermione nodded.

 

"Why are you leaving ?"

 

"Because," she sighed, "Riddle doesn't like me and I know Tchaikovsky like the back of my hand, and... I need recognition."

 

Her friend looked at her incredulously. "You've been in his orchestra for mere weeks ! You can't expect to be a soloist yet ! This takes time !"

 

Hermione clenched her jaw and looked away. Nannies were walking with their charge in the park. It was a nice neighbourhood. It somehow felt wrong.

 

"For Christ's sake, yes, you're talented, but come on ! You must see why this is absurd."

 

"I don't."

 

She heard fabric rustle against the bench and turned to look at Pansy standing. Her friend stared down at her sternly.

 

"Anyway, you must at least come to apologize to Riddle."

 

Hermione scoffed. "Apologize ?"

 

"Yes. For doing that behind his back. For disregarding all the effort he has put into bettering your playing."

 

"He hasn't helped with my playing at-"

 

"That's not my point !" she snapped, "You need to make things right ! Ever since you've been gone, and it has only been three bloody days, it's like he's... he's going positively mad !"

 

Hermione gaped at her friend. Was he so upset about her leaving ? Was that why he had come all the way to her home ? Because, hypothesising Pansy was right, she had been kind of an arse ?

 

Her friend was still looking at her, hoping for an answer. Her usually pale cheeks were pink with anger, the only touch of colour in her otherwise black outfit.

 

Hermione straightened and glared at Pansy. "I understand your point. However, I won't apologize. He has been nothing short of awful to me and it's only right he got a taste of his own medicine."

 

Her friend shook her head, pinching her lips. Her disappointment was clear. But if Hermione was anything, it was stubborn.

 

"Your behaviour is childish," she bitterly said, "you're too selfish to consider the interest of the whole orchestra, including me."

 

Hermione frowned. So she should just back down ? Pansy shook her head once more before coldly looking into Hermione's eyes. There was no more affection in her black eyes. They were as cold as her voice.

 

"Goodbye Granger."

 

* * *

 

Tom scribbled on the clear music sheets, a gift from one of his old professor that he had never used before. He had never even entertained the fancy of being a composer. He inhaled sharply, dipping his pen into the inkpot before once more setting it on the sheet, drawing elegant notes.

 

He could hear the drums, feel them pulsating and sending waves, shaking him to his core. He closed his eyes. She would have to play sharply, her violin tune would be a dangerous, thrilling sound, on the verge of pure insanity.

 

His breathing was ragged. He imagined her, playing _his_ music. How perfect would it be ? If only she was not that bloody stubborn and stayed !

 

The tip of his pen pierced the sheet. He sent the ruined piece of paper flying over his shoulder. He knew that to anyone entering his chambers, he would look like a mad man. He was circled by half-complete music-sheets.

 

But he could not stop. He once again dipped his pen into the inkpot and took a new sheet. Of course he controlled his hand, saying otherwise would have been downright absurd, but he could not stop writing. It would be closer to the truth to say that he could not stop hearing the melody that had been haunting him for a few days.

 

Had it been days ? He glanced at the window. It must have been the afternoon. But of what day ? Did he not have a rehearsal ?

 

He gritted his teeth. What was the point of rehearsing when the first violin he had chosen would not be there ? MacMillan was a joke.

 

But before he could go down that slippery slope, again, someone knocked on the door. Tom sighed. He would have to interact with the outside world again, eventually. He rose slowly, bringing his hand to his hair. It was messy. He swiftly arranged it before going to open the door.

 

His jaw clenched reflexively. Dumbledore looked at him with his false compassion over his half-moon glasses. He hated his small hypocrite smile. No, not hypocrite, _condescending_.

 

"Tom, how are you doing today ?"

 

"Just fine sir. Did you want something ?"

 

Better get it over with as quick as possible. The old coot looked over Tom's shoulder. The latter quickly stepped in the same room as Dumbledore, closing the door to his private quarters along the way. If there was one person he wanted to keep as far away as possible from his small bout of madness, it was him.

 

"Yes," he said, "I wanted to know how you were doing. Your musicians reported to me that you had missed quite a few rehearsals."

 

"I'm fine. I've just been a bit sick but I intend to have the orchestra rehearse tomorrow."

 

The director nodded. "Good. I was afraid you were not taking well Ms Granger's departure."

 

Tom gritted his teeth. Of course he was not taking it well. It should never have happened. Even Dumbledore must have seen, or rather heard, how talented she was ! Even if Tom could only admit it begrudgingly, the old man was himself talented and had quite the ear.

 

"Ms Granger is free to do whatever she wants."

 

Even though it sounded strained, Dumbledore seemed to be content with it. Maybe he would leave soon.

 

"I saw you had some music sheets in your room, are you composing ?"

 

Of course, he had just seen enough to bother him. How utterly typical.

 

"Yes."

 

"Marvellous !" smiled the director, joining his hands, "I hope you'll let me hear the piece once it's finished !"

 

Tom slightly bowed his head, doing his best to bring his lips into a tight smile. He had heard Dumbledore's pieces. He had had to, albeit begrudgingly, admit that his symphonies were very good. He had no doubt his own pieces, if he decided to pursue composition, would probably be better, but not yet. Furthermore, the old coot was mad if he thought Tom would ever go to him first to play his original pieces.

 

"I'll make sure of it sir."

 

"I won't take any more of your time Tom. However, I must remind you of the necessity for you to rehearse tomorrow. We wouldn't want you to fail the season's opening now, would we ?"

 

The mere suggestion that Tom could fail the opening was preposterous. It sent shivers of anger down his spine.

 

"It won't happen sir."

 

Dumbledore _winked_. Tom almost lost it right there. This was condescending and yet, it supposed their relationship held any kind of meaning that could justify the use of such a gesture, which it certainly did not.

 

"I'm sure it won't. I'll come to your rehearsal tomorrow. Have a nice day."

 

"You too sir."

 

As soon as the director left, Tom went back into his private apartments. His breathing was hectic. He could not see anything but the scribbled pages, meaningless notes. The music was back in his head as though Dumbledore's infuriating presence had only spurred and fuelled the white-hot burning melody that pierced through his skull.

 

 _She haunted him_ , and there was nothing he could do about it but yield. He had to get her back, whether she wanted to or not.

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione absent-mindedly watched Ginny help Lavender do her hair. She could not have tell for the life of her what the name of the hairdo was, or what they were doing in order to achieve it, but she could see it was complicated.

 

"Do you need help ?"

 

"Right ?" snorted Ginny, her eyes not leaving the bride's blonde hair, "you've been staring for the past half hour and now you're offering your help ?"

 

"Better late than never..."

 

"No thanks. Anyway you'd be bloody useless, I'm pretty sure you couldn't do my hair if our lives were at stake !"

 

Lavender chuckled. "That's not wrong..."

 

"I'm not going to feel sorry for that."

 

"We're not asking you to."

 

Hermione rolled her eyes before standing up. She was bored. There was still about an hour before the wedding and she was already dressed, Ginny had insisted on doing her hair and make up, even though Hermione had done it on her own it was apparently not sufficient, and she did not need to rehearse the Wedding March because it was absurdly simple.

 

The problem with being bored was that she could think. Pansy's words were on a loop, drilling her brain and eating her with guilt. She knew she was right. But still, Pansy was in some way right too. She was being kind of selfish. But who could blame her !

 

Ginny's elbow lightly collided with her stomach. The redhead sent her a glare.

 

"If you're not helpful and making it hard for me to move, you better get out."

 

She rolled her eyes but smiled and complied with the order. She knew better than to get in her friend's way. She left the small bedroom to get back in the living room where Ron, Harry and Fred were laughing merrily. She plopped down in one of the chairs.

 

"What's so funny ?"

 

"Oh it's just this other journalist, he's kind of pretentious."

 

"Yeah," snorted Ron, "kinda."

 

Harry and Fred snickered. Hermione raised one of her eyebrows. This promised to be interesting. Harry's colleagues always were.

 

"He's also in Lifestyle and he's famous because he has written great recipe books."

 

"What's his name ?"

 

"Gilderoy Lockhart."

 

Hermione's eyes widened. "I know him ! My dad swore by his cooking books ! I still have them !"

 

"God, you sound like mum."

 

"Shut up Ron. So, what's he like ?"

 

"Pretentious. Obnoxious. You have more vocabulary than me, you can guess the rest."

 

"Tell her the funny part," smiled Fred.

 

She straightened, a smile already forming on her lips. She would not say out loud that she loved the man's recipes but she was happy to learn more about him. A cook could not be as bad as they said, by definition he cooked and invented recipes for others. At least, selfishness could not be one of his traits.

 

"I'm his editor in chief, but, the man kind of treats me like I'm one of his fans ? Even though I've never implied it. He's so condescending. You would hate him."

 

She frowned. "Condescending how ?"

 

"He told me he would one day let me help him answer his fan mail."

 

Ron burst out laughing at that.

 

"Let you help him ?" she said incredulously.

 

"Yeah. Told you. Condescending."

 

"Hermione !"

 

They all turned to see George grinning lean against the doorframe. He tilted his head toward the front door.

 

"Someone to see you."

 

"So many people coming to see you today, you're already a celebrity," snorted Fred, "why are you still hanging out with us Hermione ?"

 

She chuckled and stood. "As you once said, it's all charity work."

 

They laughed good-heartedly as she left and opened the front door. Her smile immediately fell. Dumbledore was standing in front of her, wearing one of his aubergine suits.

 

"Sir, I, I was not expecting you, how did you know to even find me here, I, do you want to come in or -"

 

"Ms Granger, I assure you me visiting is not a bad omen," he chuckled, "as to how I find you here why dear you listed it as your parent's home. Surrogate I'm guessing but parent nonetheless."

 

She blushed profusely. "Of course. Do you want to come in ?"

 

"How about we walk a little ?"

 

"Yes sir, just one second."

 

She scurried back in the apartment.

 

"I'll be back soon."

 

Ron rose, alarm clear on his face. "In time to play for the wedding ?"

 

"Of course."

 

He nodded, reassured by her smile. She left them, still laughing about Lockhart, what a disappointment, and joined Dumbledore on the landing. The silence was heavy on her shoulders. Even if the director had said his visit was not a bad omen, she could not help but think it was. Especially after Pansy's visit. Would it also be about Riddle ?

 

She shuddered. She hoped not. She could not meet him again. She was not sure she could resist his call if she did.

 

As they began walking in the street, she glanced at him. He seemed much more at ease than her. Probably because he knew what the topic of the conversation was going to be. She struggled not to play with her skirt. Showing nervousness was never a good thing to do.

 

She cleared her throat. "Sir, you wanted to talk to me about something ?"

 

He stopped. She looked at him confused. His blue eyes were fixed on the cloudy sky. When he met her eyes again, he smiled softly.

 

"Isn't London the most beautiful city in the world ?"

 

Hermione frowned. "I don't know sir, I've never ventured to any other city."

 

"Well, you'll see when you're in Paris, you'll miss all this greyness, this soothing rain."

 

She tensed. Was he there to try to coax her into staying in his Opera House ? Had Riddle talked him into doing it ?

 

"I guess I'll see for myself sir. With all due respect, I have a wedding to attend to. Was there something you wanted to talk to me about ?"

 

His smile broadened. "Ah being young ! Being in a rush ! Yes, dear, I would like to talk to you about Riddle."

 

Of course. Bloody hell. Could she ever escape him ? Apparently, his name, if not his person, followed her. She could not say she was not surprised. After all, Dumbledore had encouraged her to seize the opportunity presented my Ms Maxime's offer.

 

"He's... quite affected by your decision to leave."

 

Her nostrils flared. The director resumed walking and she diligently followed. What could she say ? She did not care ? Did she ?

 

"Of course, his attempts at tempting you back in his orchestra are justified by your talent, but they're all foolish. However, I'm afraid that as foolish as they are, he's determined to see them through."

 

Hermione was confused. Dumbledore was here to warn her about Riddle's offers ? She visibly relaxed. That was a talk she needed. She knew she would have to steel herself to resist any offer the conductor might do to her. With his stellar reputation he almost did not need to make any.

 

She could yield at any given time.

 

"Paris is a great opportunity and you'll see that Madame Maxime is an excellent conductor. She has quite a way of playing Beethoven, very strong and energized."

 

She nodded, smiling softly. Yes, the woman appeared to have a conducting style that was quite... electric.

 

"I came today to tell you that you need to be careful there. Offers will be made to you and they won't all be good."

 

He gently put his frail hand on her shoulder. "You need not lose yourself in music. Sometimes, this world is harsh and can have too great of an impact on a person. You're talented Ms Granger, I would hate to see you destroyed by other people's greed. Tom Riddle was only the beginning."

 

 _Tom_ Riddle. _Tom_. It sounded almost too mundane for him.

 

"If you ever feel like you're not safe anymore, we will always welcome you back with open arms."

 

She shook herself back to listen to Dumbledore, slightly blushing. The important part of his speech was definitely not Tom's name. Riddle's name.

 

"Thank you sir."

 

He nodded. She felt like his twinkling blue eyes could see right through her. She blamed her reddening cheeks on the hot weather.

 

"Good luck Ms Granger. I hope I'll be able to come to Paris to see one of your performances."

 

Hermione smiled thankfully. "Thank you for everything sir."

 

"I'll leave you to your wedding then."

 

They stopped walking. He took her hand and shook it. It was the attitude someone would adopt when dealing with an equal. She shook it back gratefully.

 

"Goodbye Ms Granger."

 

"Goodbye sir."

 

The old man gave her one of his trademark soft smile before walking away, clearly standing out amongst the black fabrics that almost every other passer-by was wearing. Maybe that was what she would miss most about London. The rare exuberance of some characters.

 

She turned to walk back to the Weasley's.

 

 _Tom_. She... she _liked_ it. It sounded like him and yet... it also did not. But it stood out. Just like him. She wanted to say it out loud. The music of a name might be as important as the name itself.

 

"Tom."

 

Yes, she definitely liked it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your support :) I hope you like this new chapter !


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I have not updated in a long time. I'm currently passing a competitive exam and have been preparing, more intensely than before, for a few weeks.
> 
> Hope you still like this chapter.

Tom brushed Bellatrix's hand away from his face. She pouted.

 

"Tommy, you're all gloomy tonight !"

 

He clenched his jaw, deliberately ignoring her. She sighed dramatically, turning back to the show on stage, jewels glittering with every movement.

 

"What is the point of coming to the theatre, following me in my box, if it is not to chat ?"

 

Getting out of his mind. That was the goal of such an operation.

 

He had, foolishly, believed that coming to the theatre, where the noise is constant and insufferable, he would finally stop hearing the bloody notes that had been haunting him for the last few days. The morning rehearsal had only worsened his state, reminding him, if he even needed a reminder, how superior Hermione's playing was to Nott's.

 

He had only managed to bear it for an hour, cutting the rehearsal short and storming out of the room. The memory of her playing was inexplicably stuck in his head.

 

"Maybe enjoying the play."

 

She scoffed. "Then have comedians come to your place. The theatre is a place to chat, connect."

 

"Maybe I am just more sensitive to art than you are."

 

"Please ! Even if you were, this is a horrendous rendition of _Esther_. I would not have come otherwise, people never want to chat during the show if it is a good one."

 

He had to agree. The comedian playing Esther was quite tiresome and painfully untalented. But then, he did not like the play itself either. He preferred Shakespeare. Racine was terribly classical and passions always lashed out off stage, if they ever did. Or worse, they lashed out through screamed words.

 

Music was there to express passion through sound. Comedians had to express them through movement or spoken words. When they tried to imitate the cry of a violin or of a piano by screaming monologues, it sounded grotesque and out of place.

 

"So, why are you in such a bad mood ?"

 

He turned from the stuttering comedian to meet Bellatrix's black eyes. There was no smile playing on her lips. She had always fancied herself his friend. Maybe she was. In a way.

 

"My musicians lack any kind of talent."

 

It was not too far from the truth. He did not want to broach the topic of his soloist because Bellatrix was not stupid and she would probably make the connection with his "little bird".

 

"Since when has that stopped you from giving your audience a perfect performance ?"

 

Tom frowned. She shrugged, slightly creasing the flowers adorning the collar of her dress. Collar was probably not the right word for it, her shoulders and neck were naked after all.

 

"You're always saying you're a genius, you've proved it numerous times."

 

"Yes, but I can't do miracles with -"

 

"Are you afraid of failing ?"

 

He glared at her. "I don't think you can use the words 'afraid' and 'failing' in a sentence where I am the grammatical subject."

 

She cackled lightly drawing a few glances from the orchestra pit. She gestured at the maid standing behind them.

 

"Champagne."

 

The maid nodded before leaving them alone.

 

"You're cocky."

 

He smirked. "Yes, but rightfully so."

 

She hummed lightly, observing him from beneath her thick dark lashes. She suddenly threw her head back, effectively sending a few of her tightly tied curls down her neck. He stiffened. It did not look right.

 

The notes came back to sing in his ears. He had not even noticed they were gone. Bellatrix might work as a distraction after all.

 

"So, are you ? Afraid that is."

 

Tom shook his head. "No, even if I had only elephants as musicians and they had no idea of how to play, I could still offer an excellent performance."

 

She shrugged as the maid came back, holding two flutes full of sparkling champagne. Bellatrix took the two glasses before dismissing the maid and giving one of the flutes to Tom.

 

"To you, Lord Voldemort, the most talented conductor the world has ever been gifted with."

 

He nodded with a small smile. "To you, Lady Lestrange, the best cantatrice I have ever had the chance to work with."

 

She let out a small cackle before taking a small sip of the luxurious alcohol. He mirrored her gesture, turning to look at the scene unfolding on the stage.

 

Ever since he had been revealed as a talented conductor and had become world-wide famous, champagne had become somewhat of a usual drink on evenings where he decided to mingle. Funny how something fancy could morph into something ordinary once you stepped up the social ladder.

 

"I know there's something you're not telling me. But I won't press you. I hope you'll come to your senses and tell me in the following days."

 

He took another sip. "What if I don't ?"

 

She sighed putting down her own flute. She stood up.

 

"I hope you will," she said as she pulled on the cord to call her maid, "because right now, you have to go, the Duke of Guermantes, French, which is delightful, is coming to meet me."

 

Of course. She always came to the theatre, to chat, but also to meet with her lovers or potential lovers. In this particular situation, he did not mind. Had they continued their discussion, she might have tried to have him confess.

 

And she was much too talented at that sort of thing. She probably would have succeeded.

 

As soon as he left her in her bow, passing by a handsome and trembling man on his way out, the notes came back in his head, plaguing his mind. He needed to write again. Write until his hand hurt so much he could not hold his fountain pen anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione set her luggage down and glanced around. The trip to Paris had been exhausting, she had turned out to be seasick. Just her luck !

 

She let herself fall and spread on the plush bed. Madame Maxime had said the Opéra was the one renting the room she was to sleep in at the Hôtel Ritz Paris, a fairly recent hotel but quite luxurious.

 

The room was much larger than what she was used to. The bed was also much more comfortable than her old London's cot. She absently stroked the bedcover. It was insanely soft. From her experience in Ollivander's shop, this was silk. And not the cheap kind.

 

She stood back up as someone knocked on the door. When she opened it, she was met with Madame Maxime's large smile.

 

" _Bienvenue ma chère_ ! I hope you like Paris."

 

Hermione's mind struggled to get the French words, thankfully she had heard them before, a lot of French people liked to go to London, it was probably fashionable. They kissed each other on the cheek, Hermione would have to work on getting used to that.

 

"Yes, thank you Madame Maxime, it is wonderful !"

 

The tall woman smiled. " _Parfait_ ! Because tonight I'm bringing you to a _salon_ ! And tomorrow, rehearsal !"

 

Hermione nodded anxiously. She had studied the music sheets the conductor had given her before boarding the boat. She knew them of course. They were more than famous. However, she had never dared playing any of Vivaldi's concertos. Maybe because they were too famous in a way. Maybe because she had already seen the music sheets of _La Primavera_ and it had not struck her as particularly interesting to play.

 

But she had then seen all of the other seasons and she could see why the work was so famous. It required an excellent violinist to play it right. When she had skimmed the music sheets, she had been even more flattered by Madame Maxime's offer. She had to think her quite talented to offer her this part.

 

Hermione would not disappoint. She rarely ever did.

 

"There is a dress waiting for you in the bathroom. If you need help, just pull the rope."

 

"Thank you."

 

"I'll meet you in the hall in an hour and a half."

 

The conductor smiled again before taking her leave in a flourish of lavender fabric. Hermione immediately opened the door leading to the bathroom. On a small wicker chair, there was a black dress with white undergarments and a pair of barely heeled black shoes adorned with black pearls. She paled. There was a corset.

 

She took the black fabric of the dress in her hands. It was very soft, it was silk with an overskirt, still black, but in embroidered tulle. The motif was that of large flowers. She held it in front of her.

 

"Bloody hell..."

 

The waist was small. Really small. She knew it was fashionable, she had seen women sporting that kind of... _things_ , at the Death Eaters concert or at the Opera. Still, she had always managed to avoid it like the plague preferring a loser corset.

 

To be quite honest she also did not have the funds to acquire such luxurious items before. Nonetheless, she could not fathom why one would pay a fortune to suffer through hell and back.

 

Hermione sighed. She objectively knew that if her career was to become truly exceptional, she would need to accept the fashion norms. This day had come. She could offer them. Or at least her employer could give her the means to do so.

 

She would not be a coward. She glanced at the clock in the bedroom. It had already been ten minutes. She gritted her teeth. She had not even started on her hair. And her hair, as always, was a mess of curls, especially after the trip.

 

She put the black dress back on the chair and pulled the rope forcefully. Waiting for a housemaid, she took her violin out of its case and laid it down on the bed. She would probably need to take it to play. She was tuning it when someone knocked on the door.

 

She quickly got up and opened the door. The housemaid smiled at her and slightly bowed her head.

 

" _Madame. En quoi puis-je vous aider ?_ "

 

Hermione blushed. She would really need to start learning French if she was to survive.

 

"Do you speak English ?"

 

"Yes, can I help you ?"

 

"Hum, yes, please, come in."

 

The maid followed her inside the room, closing the door behind them.

 

"I need help getting dressed."

 

She nodded, lips tightening, focus visibly shifting. She roamed Hermione's body with critical eyes.

 

"You need to take off your clothe."

 

Hermione almost remarked on the grammatical error, or on the accent, but she had neither the time to do so nor was it necessary. After all, she did not speak two languages whereas the girl seemed to do so.

 

She nodded and took off her clothes only keeping her undergarments. The maid gave her an annoyed look before pointing to the undergarments that had been given to her with the dress. Hermione sighed and took off her own.

 

It reminded her of the time where she had tried on dresses with Pansy. It probably would not happen again anytime soon.

 

The maid ushered her into the bathroom, quickly taking the small sponge and showing her the tub. Hermione hopped in the small tin tub and watched as the maid brought a large jug of water. She shivered as she poured it on her. It was cold, fortunately it was summer. The maid began to scrub her skin harshly with the sponge perfumed with an expensive bar of soap.

 

Hermione had never been washed. Well, she had been, but as a child. Ever since her parents had died when she was eleven, and even before, she had washed alone. She could not say she was surprised to learn that rich people were odd. They did not even bathe themselves. She had known it before but to experience it was a different thing.

 

When her skin was scrubbed raw and was pink from the force of said scrubbing, the maid appeared to be satisfied and started drying her with a plush piece of fabric.

 

"Do you need help with your hair ?"

 

"Yes, thank you."

 

The maid nodded and helped her put on the undergarments, far more revealing than she was used to although not much was revealed if not for her arms, shoulders and calves. She then sat in front of the vanity. The mirror was quite beautiful, integrated to the wall. She had read that under Louis the 14th reign, the French had stolen the technique to produce mirrors from the specialised factories in Venice. That mirror was sort of a product of that history.

 

The maid took a few tools in the drawers and proceeded to do Hermione's hair, bringing the latter back to the matter at hand. The musician could only admire the maid's dexterous hands. She avoided the knots expertly. Maybe she would have done a good musician herself. Maybe she was one.

 

"Do you play an instrument ?"

 

The maid met her eyes in the mirror with a small smile. "Little piano. But very little."

 

Hermione smiled in return. "You have musician's hands."

 

The maid blushed nervously before going back to her hair. Maybe she could not afford to be a musician, or her parents did not want her to be one. Clearly, she did not want to talk about it.

 

After a few more minutes, she stepped back and put her hands on her hips. Hermione smiled as she looked at her reflection, it was quite beautiful. It was a variant of the Gibson Girl she guessed. She did not know much about hairdos.

 

"Now, for the clothe."

 

She stood up. The maid tightened the corset to the point where her breath was but the shadow of what it had previously been. She then slipped the gown on. Her shoulders were exposed, the sleeves were very small and in the same fabric as the whole bodice.

 

The maid gave her a bright smile. " _Et voilà !"_

 

Hermione had to admit it, she was quite the sight. Blushing, she took her violin and smiled at the maid.

 

" _Me'ci beaucoup_."

 

The maid chuckled before slightly bowing and leaving her. Hermione glanced at the clock. She had eight minutes left. She finished tuning her violin before shrugging on a light black coat and heading out. Her jaw was set. She would be successful, or she would be nothing.

 

Paris better be prepared for Hermione Granger, because she would hold nothing back.

 

* * *

 

 

Tom sighed. His ceiling really was a work of art. Arabesques of gold and golden brown entangled with tan vines on a cream background. He tilted his head, creasing the music sheets lying under him.

 

He had been scribbling for a few hours on clean sheets, and on the ones he had already written on. If he had not truly thought himself to be mad before, he now had irrefutable proof.

 

"Tommy ?"

 

He groaned, hiding his face with his hands. Bellatrix had been "checking on him", "making sure he was alright", ever since the evening he had spent with her at the theatre. He rose slowly, careful not to rumple the music sheets. Maybe he could pretend he was not there.

 

"Tommy, I know you're here, Ms Umbridge told me."

 

"Of course she did..."

 

He would have to make the woman understand that any company was to be refused. To be fair, it was quite hard to refuse Bellatrix's company, she rarely had concern for the other party's feelings about her presence.

 

He opened the door, already bored out of his mind. The former cantatrice smirked at him winningly, pushing past him to enter the messy room.

 

"Well, you don't look good now, do you ?"

 

He snarled. He had not looked in a mirror since the previous day. It could not be that bad. He had even been to rehearsal this morning. Dumbledore had been there, condescending gaze and all. Infuriating.

 

"What do you want ?"

 

The smile she still sported was much too sweet. He narrowed his eyes. She had something planned, and whatever it was, it would not mean anything good for him.

 

"I want to give you a gift actually."

 

He rolled his eyes. That was not too bad. He could always throw it away later. Or it could even be useful. She came closer to him and handed him a box wrapped in Kraft paper. Tom took it carefully and examined it. The size ruled out a book, or it would be several books.

 

"Come on open it ! I don't have all the time in the world !"

 

He tore the Kraft paper, revealing a black box with markings on it and a small piece of paper listing instructions. He frowned.

 

"What is this ?"

 

"It's a Kodak Brownie ! Everyone has one you know now. It's to take pictures. Photography ! You press the button we do the rest and whatnots. That way you'll do something of your time."

 

"I do something of my time, I compose. I'm a genius remember ?"

 

She snorted as Tom studied the black box, quickly finding the lens. He glanced at the instructions. It seemed easy enough to use. Although he had no idea what he could photograph.

 

"You're welcome."

 

He nodded. He was not going to voice any thankfulness. He had nothing to be thankful for. Bellatrix rolled her eyes before putting her gloves back on her small bony hands.

 

"Well, if you're not going to say anything, I better go."

 

"Another one of your lovers waiting for you ?"

 

She shrugged in false indifference. The smirk gracing her lips was only too telling. Not that she tried to hide anything.

 

"Seeing as I'm still irresistible, yes, another one of my lovers."

 

He sneered as she opened the door. "Well, have a good time playing with him !"

 

"I will !" she cackled, lightly slamming the door behind her.

 

He shook his head turning his focus back to the small box. It really was the most curious thing. He had already seen similar tools but he had never used one before. He read the instructions once more. It seemed simple enough. Quickly, he opened the curtains in order to allow the day's light to come in.

 

He blinked. The sun was blinding. He really ought to go outside more.

 

He stepped back in the cool shadow and pointed the lens to the floor where his music sheets were scattered. He had to start somewhere.

 

* * *

  

Hermione wiped the sweat off her forehead with her arm before, once again, putting her violin in the right position.

 

" _Et... Cinq, six, sept, huit !_ "

 

The orchestra started to play _La Primavera_. Hermione joined in when it was her cue. It was hard. The tone shifted tremendously from one season to the other. And of course, the rhythm was insanely fast. The muscles of her right arm hurt.

 

" _Allegro s'il vous plaît Delacour !_ "

Hermione could feel beads of sweat in her neck. Her breath was hectic. It was hot. They were all only wearing their shirts having taken off jackets and waistcoats in order to be able to breathe. Sweat stained their clothes, making the fabric stick to their feverish skin.

 

" _Et... Largo._ "

 

Thankfully most of the technical terms were the same in English and in French. Her eyes fluttered shut as her movements became larger, the rhythm slowing languorously, attenuating the almost unbearable heat.

 

" _Allegro !_ "

 

She opened her eyes, following the gestures of the other violinists before joining them. It was not as fast as the first allegro which she was thankful for. Fortunately, they were only to rehearse _La Primavera_ that day. They would start on the other seasons the next day.

 

She could not help but feel anxious at the thought. She knew she was an excellent violinist, she would not be here if she was not, but still, she had barely had the chance to rehearse and learn the pieces on her own.

 

She gritted her teeth, letting the strings of her bow stroke the strings of the violin. The solo parts contrasted widely with the orchestra's parts in _La Primavera_.

 

She glanced at Madame Maxime. She was very tall, only more now that she was on a small stage. She had a commanding aura. Still, she did not exude the same kind of powerful talent Riddle did.

 

Hermione looked away. She could not think about Riddle right now. It would be useless and it would only make her miss London more.

 

" _Bien. Nous allons reprendre La Primavera depuis le début._ _Mademoiselle_ Granger, we're going to start on _La Primavera_ again."

 

She nodded, readying herself. If Riddle had a foreign musician, he probably would not have cared enough to translate. She was lucky to be in Madame Maxime's orchestra. She was lucky. She should be thankful. She should not be thinking about him every time she glanced at the conductor's stage.

 

However she could not help but do so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have checked and no, it was not common at all in 1904 to play the Four Seasons. Quite the contrary, it began to be played again in the 1920's. However. This is a work of pure fiction. I try to only use pieces predating 1904 and follow historical guidelines as much as possible. But I also have started writing this fanfiction to share my love of classical music. And sometimes I want to use a piece that is anachronic (not terribly so but still). 
> 
> For those wondering, the reference for the Four Seasons will be the version by Karl Münchinger and the Stuttgart Chamber Orchestra.


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